


When In Rome

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [62]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Knight Rider - All Media Types, Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Light the Fuse, Small town politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27490372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: Jules’ father is in town and he has a problem.  Two journalists have gone missing…and they were last seen in the town lockup.  With local law enforcement compromised, Roy and Giles go undercover to find the missing journalists.  Can they find the missing men or will they disappear themselves?
Relationships: Sam Braddock/Jules Callaghan
Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [62]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/538363
Comments: 56
Kudos: 6





	1. Small Town Problem

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the sixty-second in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Face/Off".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

“Oy! Watch it, I just cleaned this suit!” a tall, lean man yelped as he was shoved into the small police station. His friend kept quiet, though his scowl said it all as he, too, was pushed inside; the deputies that had arrested them merely sneered, unimpressed with the out-of-town drunks.

The lead deputy hauled the loudmouth towards the station’s small cell area, only to pause as his superior looked up from his desk. “Saunders?” the man asked, tone pointed.

“Drunk and disorderly, sir,” the dark-haired officer replied, mouth tightening. “This one,” he tugged on the lean arrestee, earning a drunken smirk, “knocked out the taillight on my squad car.”

“Is that so…” the sheriff drawled, rising to his feet and sauntering around his desk to inspect the drunks.

“Shoulda parked somewhere else,” the brunet jeered. “Not my fault I tripped on your bumper, cop.”

“Shut up, Roy,” the other man ordered – he appeared marginally more sober than his friend.

The Sergeant leaned into Roy’s face. “That’s good advice, son; I’d take it if I were you.”

Roy snorted derision, but said nothing.

“Toss ‘em in the drunk tank for the night, Saunders.”

“Yessir.”

The men were hauled to the cell set against the station’s exterior wall and locked in. Deputy Saunders, still sore about the damage to his patrol car, waited for his fellow officers to leave before taunting, “Destruction of public property…bet I could add that to your drunk charge.”

“You and what army, genius?” Roy retorted.

“Roy, seriously, shut it,” his friend snapped. Looking up at the deputy, he said, “We’re really sorry about that, officer.”

“Yeah,” Saunders jeered. “I bet you are.” To his disappointment, the drunk’s friend kept him from responding. After a few moments, he left.

The men in the cell waited until they were sure the officer was gone and not returning. Then they traded looks and started searching the tiny cell. The coarse pillows and sheets were inspected, one man turned them inside and out while the other checked under the beds, searching every possible crevice.

“Giles.”

The slightly shorter, but broader brunet stopped, glancing down at his friend. One eyebrow hiked, then he saw what Roy was holding up. A broken digital voice recorder…with blood stains on it.

* * * * *

_63 hours earlier (3 days earlier)_

Commander Norm Holleran bit back a grimace of pain as he eased into the chair behind his desk. Although his old bullet-proof vest had saved his life, absorbing three of the bullets he’d been shot with, the fourth had penetrated his armor and ricocheted into his chest, causing a considerable amount of damage to the commander. If not for magic, he’d still be in the hospital – even _with_ magic, it was going to take a few weeks for his body to completely recover from the trauma.

And yet, none of that held a _candle_ to losing one of the best officers he’d ever had the honor of commanding. Sergeant Gregory Parker wasn’t _officially_ dead, but given the four alarm fire that had sprung up around his last known location… Holleran wasn’t holding his breath. Parker hadn’t escaped to Team One’s magic-side safe house or checked in since the blaze – and he _would_ have. Within a day, two at the most.

“Sir?”

Holleran looked up at Constable Kira Marlowe – the SRU dispatcher’s expression was tight, closed, and more than a little cold. Within a day of the fire, the entire barn had known the _real_ story behind Sergeant Parker’s ‘suspension’, namely, that he’d been forcibly transferred and sent undercover, that he’d been forced to deceive and alienate his former team, and that he was almost certainly dead. The gossip chain, Holleran was sure, alternated daily between whether the late Sergeant had taken the infamous Castor Troy with him or not. Regardless, his own authority had taken a severe blow in the aftermath, despite the fact that Parker’s transfer had occurred without his consent and that he’d been doing his _best_ to _reverse_ that transfer.

“Something I can do for you, Kira?” First names were unlikely to be enough to get him out of the SRU’s black books, but Holleran was _determined_ to re-earn his subordinates’ trust. Starting with _finally_ getting Parker transferred back to the SRU; if nothing else, the commander intended to argue that Parker had spent most of his career in the SRU and would want to be buried _as_ an SRU officer.

“Preliminary report on the fire, sir,” Kira replied, offering the folder in her hands. Her expression softened, just a touch. “Sir? Is…is it true?”

Commander Holleran took the folder, but didn’t open it. “Is what true, Kira?”

“Is Sergeant Parker really dead?”

About to open his mouth, Holleran paused, glancing down at the folder in his hands. “One moment, Kira.”

“Sir?”

Ignoring her confusion, the black man flipped the folder open, skimming through the pages. Then he halted, closing his eyes in grief. “I’m afraid so, Kira.”

The blonde edged closer. “They…they identified him?”

Holleran shook his head, but turned the folder so she could see what he had. “No, Kira, the bodies are too badly burned for anything but DNA and dental records.”

Kira sucked in a breath, her eyes landing on the same picture his had. Sergeant Parker’s Auror badge, almost unrecognizable – half melted and covered in debris from the fire, but the eagle and the hilt of the sword were still recognizable, as was the glint of gold underneath the soot. “They found that on one of the bodies?”

“Near one of them,” the commander confirmed softly. “He didn’t die in the fire, Kira; the bodies they’ve recovered so far have gunshot wounds, center mass.”

The dispatcher knew what that meant. Although it wasn’t impossible that the victims had survived the bullets, only to die in the fire, it was unlikely. Tears threatened and she turned her head away. “I’ll miss him, sir.”

“We all will,” Commander Holleran whispered, allowing his own anguish to show. “Was there anything else, Kira?”

Marlowe hastily wiped her eyes. “Ummm…yes, sir. Captain Cragen called. He said they searched Detective Kastor’s apartment, but she’s in the wind.”

Anger stirred, but the grief was still too strong. Too fresh. “Thank you, Kira. Put Team One on secondary for the foreseeable future, if you would.”

“Yes, sir,” Kira acknowledged, slipping out of the office and closing the door behind her.

Behind her, Commander Holleran pulled open a locked desk drawer and retrieved the file hidden inside. Gingerly, he opened it, tugging the photograph within free. One finger traced the outline of the officer pictured. “I’m sorry, Greg,” he murmured. “She got away for now, but I promise you, we’ll find her. She won’t get away with this.”

He wouldn’t let this case go and neither, he knew, would Captain Cragen. Regardless of anything else, Greg Parker had been a _cop_ , a friend, and a good man. To let his murderer’s accomplice go free was unthinkable. Even if it took another twenty _years_ , Brenda Kastor _would_ be brought to justice.

* * * * *

Sergeant Ed Lane popped open his latest glass bottle of old-fashioned Coke, listening to the hiss it made before he took a swig. It really _did_ sound enough like a beer bottle to fool someone listening over the phone. Not that that little fact made it _feel_ any better. Didn’t make him feel any better to know he’d been up against a man who knew what buttons to push and when. His best friend, the negotiator and profiler. Boss, friend…brother.

“At least you never gave up on him.”

Blue eyes closed. “I did give up on him, Wordy. There were all these little clues and I just… _ignored_ them.”

Wordy cocked his head. “What clues, Ed?” Then his voice shook, turning rough with shame and grief. “I…I stopped calling him after three weeks. Never even _bothered_ to figure out what was going on. Some friend _I_ am.”

Ed swallowed harshly. “The…” He stopped, minute trembles running through him. “Back then, Word, he wasn’t as bad as some get. Never got mean or nasty, even when I was bugging him every day about the drinking. A couple times, I’d go and haul him outta the bar; he’d never go until the bartender told him he was all paid up, then he let me drag him back to his place.” The Sergeant paused, summoning up those old memories. “When I’d find him, he’d usually offer to buy me a drink.” The bark of laughter rang with remembered bitterness, then Ed’s voice turned serious. “One thing he always make sure of, Wordy.”

“What?” Curiosity and an intense yearning to _know_ rang. Desperate to understand what had been missed and how to keep from missing it again.

“His gun.” Ed turned, meeting his team leader’s gaze. “Greg never, _ever_ took his sidearm with him when he went out drinking. He told me once that he’d heard stories about drunks with guns and he wasn’t going to be one of those stories.”

The brunet whistled low. “So…Sarge getting nasty, that’s what tipped you off?”

“Not at first,” Lane admitted. Frowning, he considered. “I think…I think what I should’ve noticed was he kept insisting the kids were _safer_. And one time he started slurring the way he did at the tail end of that ten-day shift.”

Wordy groaned, burying his head in his hands. “Ugh. You _had_ to bring _that_ one up.”

Ed dredged up a smirk. _That_ shift lived in Team One infamy. Thirteen hot calls in ten days, seven of them magic-side. By the end, every member of the team had been dead on their feet and wishing they dared take a Pepper-Up Potion. Greg hadn’t been the only one slurring his words; the slur had started sometime during the eleventh hot call, forcing the negotiator to figure out how to _stop_ the slurring in order to negotiate intelligibly. Jules hadn’t even bothered, something that, in retrospect, should’ve been yet another red flag as to how much _stress_ they were piling on their boss’s shoulders.

“So…yeah,” the bald sniper murmured, grief welling up. “There were clues and I just…I left him out there on his own. A couple times, he dropped the act and really _talked_ to me.”

The team leader’s eyes widened. “He did?”

A rough nod and his throat tightened. “He did, but as soon as he was done, he’d hit me with another bottle crack and start guzzling something…soda, I guess.”

“But you thought it was beer,” Wordy said flatly.

Ed’s throat went tighter still and his chest ached; he shifted back to his locker to hide the tears. “He told me I’d give up on him, sooner or later. I said I wouldn’t, but…” Inside, his heart wrenched. “…he was right, Word. I did give up on him. I bet that’s why he didn’t call any of us when Holleran went down.”

“Too many lies,” the brunet whispered.

The Sergeant didn’t respond. What else was there to say? Greg was gone, Greg was _dead_ , and nothing was right any more. He’d died alone, desperately trying to protect the family he’d spent the last two _months_ lying to. The best of them, their foundation, their leader through thick, thin, and the end of the world. And instead of being right _there_ beside him where they _belonged_ , they’d all turned their backs and walked away. Leaving him to die _alone_ , probably terrified as Troy’s trap burned to the ground around him. The best Ed could hope for was that Greg had taken that _demon_ with him.

* * * * *

Lou sighed to himself, watching his friend up the poundage on his latest weight machine. Normally, Spike _hated_ the weight machines; while the bomb tech tended to be more than a bit of a slacker when it came to working out, he did keep up with SRU requirements – on the aerobic machines. The less-lethal specialist could count on one hand the number of times his best friend had _volunteered_ for the weight machines before Sarge…

He cut the thought off, grimacing and flinching internally. How sad was _that_ – he couldn’t even _think_ the word. Lou knew why Spike was half-killing himself with the weight machines, knew why they hadn’t pulled even _one_ prank since the day Sarge left. It just…it wasn’t the _same_ …it _felt_ wrong to laugh and joke and play as if nothing had changed. As if their whole world hadn’t come crashing down when they weren’t looking.

Ed and Wordy were walking around half-dead, like someone had taken a chunk out of their _souls_ – Lou didn’t feel quite that bad, but he couldn’t deny the growing sense that Sarge had been more than _just_ his boss. More than just the family he’d chosen. Spike was the same, but also…worse. After all, he and Sarge had been blood brothers, thanks to that wizard serial killer and his nasty, language-twisting curse. It stood to reason that Spike was feeling the loss of his magical ‘brother’ more than Lou could. Hence the weight-lifting and the distinct lack of video games and practical jokes.

Then Spike hopped off to increase the weight again. Lou hustled over before he could reach for the bar. “Hey, hey, you put that up any more and you’re gonna tear something, Spike.”

“I don’t care!” the lithe constable snarled.

Lou got between his friend and the weights. “But I do. You gotta stop, buddy. Ripping yourself up like this isn’t gonna bring him back.”

Spike froze, head coming up to stare at Lou. For a moment, they glared at each other, neither willing to back down, then Spike crumpled. Lou grabbed him, hauling his friend into a rough hug; the bomb tech fought for an instant, then the sobs wrenched free. Biting back tears of his own, Lou just hung on. That was another new thing since Sarge had… _left_. They could hardly make it through a shift without ending up in tears at _some_ point.

He should’ve hated Sarge for doing this to them. Instead, all the tan-skinned constable could feel was overwhelming, total grief. The glue that had held them together was gone and in that absence, nothing was right any more. Nothing ever _could_ be right again. Not without the Boss.

* * * * *

Jules Callaghan hugged her father, grip almost fierce. He’d already been planning to come down to the city for a visit, but in the aftermath of Sarge’s death…tears stung and the brunette turned her head to listen to her father’s heartbeat. Strong and sure. He hugged her back, knowing she needed his support. Usually, the negotiator/sniper could stand on her own two feet, thank you, but sometimes… She just needed her father to hold her and chase the nightmares away. Pity _this_ nightmare was very much a reality.

“You want to talk about it, Julie?”

Reluctantly, she pulled away. Easing back, she twisted her hands together. “Let’s, uh, let’s get you settled first, Dad.”

Her father nodded, accepting that. Taller than his daughter by almost eight centimeters, with black hair grown partway down his neck, broad shoulders, and a ready smile, Zach Callaghan looked far more like the farmer he’d become than the cop he’d once been. Jules reached for his suitcase, but he hefted it himself with a wry chuckle. “Now, now, Julie, I’m not quite that decrepit.”

Eyeing the hints of gray at the formerly raven temples, Jules countered, “Sure, Dad, whatever you say.”

He roared with laughter and strode past her to head up the steps of her house. The brunette smiled and went after him; her guest room had undergone quite a few changes since his last visit. For now, they were alone, though Sam was planning to show up later with a home cooked casserole from his aunt’s house-elves. Apparently, the Locksley house-elves had ‘adopted’ their mistress’ nephew, though how that translated to weekly casseroles almost as large as her refrigerator’s widest shelf, Jules still hadn’t figured out.

As she discreetly pointed her father up the stairs and gestured for him to go left once he hit the top, Jules asked, “How was the drive down, Dad?”

“Not too bad; traffic was light, roads were good.”

“No last minute pleas from Old Hodgkin?”

Her father laughed, pale blue dancing at the reference to their sometimes crotchety old neighbor. Old Man Hodgkin, as all the neighbor kids called him, had declared Jules an up and coming ‘looker’ at the age of twelve and a troublemaker at thirteen. The young girl had been unimpressed with both pronouncements, especially when her brothers started teasing her about them. Then the elder man had come to Jules’ rescue when an overly aggressive date tried to go too far. Hodgkin had taken the teenage boy over his knee – literally – while his wife made Jules hot chocolate and called her father. Jules had never heard so much as a peep from the boy again and she’d found herself in an extremely _odd_ friendship with the old man throughout the remainder of her high school years.

“Just him telling me to tell you to keep your chin up, Julie.”

A faint smile peeked through the gloom and depression that had been her constant companions since Sarge’s death. Before even, when he’d _left_. “Doing my best, Dad.”

But her voice hitched, betraying the grief in her heart and soul. She’d gotten so used to Sarge always _being_ there that she’d started taking it for granted. Taking _him_ for granted. Why hadn’t she looked, why hadn’t she tried _harder_ to understand why he was pushing them away so stridently? She was his second, the team’s backup negotiator – she should have _known_ something was wrong when Sarge changed so dramatically. Literally overnight.

They’d reached the guest room; her father dropped his suitcase and reached out, gathering her up and tucking her close under his chin, heartbeat a reassuring throb in her ear. “All right, Julie,” he murmured, “I’m inside; I’ll unpack later. Now will you tell me what’s got the toughest cop in Toronto down?”

“Dad!”

He chuckled. “You’re the toughest cop _I_ know, Sweetheart. Way too tough for this old man.”

Laughter tickled, but wouldn’t come. Not around the lump in her throat. “You know,” she whispered, easing out of her father’s grasp. “I never thought of him as _tough_.” A harsh swallow and she absently twisted her hands together again, kneading the fingers as she kept going. “He…he was the gentlest guy I know. Always looked out for us as much as he could.” She would not cry. She was SRU, one of the cool pants, and…she didn’t _deserve_ to cry for him. Not after leaving him all alone with pain and fear and _death_.

“Your boss, Julie?” Surprise rang. “Last we talked, you told me he’d gone on a bender and got himself suspended.”

Slowly, shakily, Jules told her father the whole miserable story. The transfer, the undercover op, the lies her boss had been forced into. The monster with a _thing_ for families and a vendetta against Sergeant Greg Parker for having the _courage_ to arrest him all those years ago. The gang war, the shootings, and the fire; how their world had come crashing down in that moment.

Shaking with emotion, she kept going. Telling Sophie, Shelley, and the _kids_. The despairing, keening wail from Alanna, her brother sweeping her up in a hug before any of the adults could. Lance hadn’t cried, turning away from all of them save his sister. Not that day, nor in all the days since. It was as if the teenager had decided he couldn’t trust the adults in his life any more. It didn’t help that Ed and Wordy were still too broken up to notice Lance’s behavior. Spike was just as miserable, requiring all of Lou’s attention to keep the bomb tech from working himself to death, and Sam… Sam had reacted just like Lance, pulling away and refusing to even _mention_ Sarge’s name.

Jules supposed she was little better, what with her raw refusal to cry and her near obsessive _need_ to keep tabs on her remaining teammates. But someone had to do it. Someone had to make sure none of them slipped through the cracks like _Sarge_ had. She’d failed her family once; she _wouldn’t_ do it again.

The flow of words petered out, the innermost longings of her heart on full display. She missed him. So much they’d gone through as a _team_ and he’d died alone at the hands of a non-magical psychopath. Why…why hadn’t he been wearing a _vest_? Why hadn’t he used his badge Portkey to escape once the fire started?

“He sounds like he was a great boss, Julie. I wish I could have met him.”

The brunette dredged up a smile. “He would’ve liked you, Dad.” Firmly, she set the anguish aside. “So… How about you, Dad? How’ve things been since you moved?”

Her father’s expression darkened just a hair. He considered, then remarked, “Well, Julie, funny you should ask.”

Jules’ eyes narrowed. Her father had known _perfectly_ well that she would ask, sooner or later. “Dad.”

He stopped, reading her gritted, ‘get-to-the-point’ tone perfectly. Then he sighed, tugging her into a half-hug. “Never could snow your mother either, Julie.” Another sigh. “You’re right. Something’s come up, kiddo. I could use your help. You and that team of yours if they’re willing.”

* * * * *

Commander Holleran scowled as Zach Callaghan made his pitch. A simple investigation into the whereabouts of two missing journalists, last seen in the town lockup on drunk and disorderly charges. With local law enforcement implicated, Callaghan had seen fit to come and ask his SRU daughter and her team for help.

Very nice, very neat. Except… “You are aware that our unit _isn’t_ Internal Affairs, aren’t you?”

The ex-cop subtly stiffened. “Yes, sir, I am,” he confirmed. “Look…it’s a small town. Not really much in the way of IA or outside options if the local sheriff goes bad.”

Jules frowned. “You think whatever happened was _deliberate_?”

Holleran watched as the elder Callaghan made a valiant attempt to _squirm_ without actually squirming. “The deputies say they released the journalists the morning after, but no one I’ve talked to has actually _seen_ them since they got arrested. There’s a few people around town who whisper, but just about everyone knows to stay out of the sheriff’s business.” Swinging to face his daughter, Callaghan added, “I may not be a cop any more, Julie, but some things, you don’t forget. I know something’s wrong, but I’ve got no _proof_.”

“Just instinct,” Jules whispered. Distress ran across her face, mirrored by her teammates, at the inadvertent reminder of all Sergeant Parker had had when dealing with his backstabbing undercover handler. Screaming instincts and no _proof_.

He didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at _all_ ; Team One was one _breath_ away from shattering into a thousand pieces. They _needed_ time on secondary status, a breather to let them start recovering – as much as any of them _could_ – from Parker’s death. The _last_ thing they needed was some jaunt off to the backwoods of Canada to play Internal Affairs in some tiny, podunk town. Or was it?

The commander’s frown deepened. If they stayed in Toronto, it was all but inevitable that they’d be on a hot call sooner or later. Secondary status didn’t mean _off-duty_. In fact, secondary status meant Team One would be spending more time at the _barn_. Where Parker’s ghost was all but tangible, lurking in every corner Team One frequented. The parts of the barn Parker _hadn’t_ visited could be counted on one hand – and were usually the sole domain of building maintenance.

Surveying the constables and their Sergeant, Commander Holleran came to a decision. Keeping Team One _here_ , in _Toronto_ , would cause _far_ more damage than a simple jaunt up to Lyndhurst Flats, the town Jules’ father had recently moved to as he looked to downsize and start retiring from farming. With any luck, the clear-cut, simple investigation would give Team One a change of pace and space to start dealing with their former boss’s death. Once they got back, he could muscle them into a few sessions with the department psychiatrist. And perhaps, by that point, Parker’s body would be identified so they could give him the department funeral he deserved.

“All right,” he announced. “I’ll allow this, on _one_ condition, Sergeant Lane.”

“Yes, sir?”

Meeting Lane’s gaze, Holleran replied, “Your brother and Detective Onasi go along for the ride.”

He could see the reflexive refusal, the _need_ to protect what little family the Sergeant still had left, then Ed bowed his head in acceptance. “Copy that.”


	2. Undercover Criminals

With Commander Holleran’s permission – and blessing – Team One took their trucks, though it was an odd looking caravan that set out the morning after. Zach Callaghan took the lead and Jules drove the first truck, keeping in contact with her father, ostensibly using a CB radio to connect with him. In reality, she was using her magical smartphone with her team, as well as the two Guns ‘n’ Gangs detectives, listening in. Sam and Ed, more used to long distance driving than their teammates, drove the second and third trucks, while Roy brought up the rear in his old faithful, but battered, sedan. Wordy had already volunteered to swap out with Roy when he needed a break – despite his two years working in the techie world, Onasi had yet to learn how to drive.

Rather than head straight for Lyndhurst Flats, the group angled for the Callaghans’ old farmstead; although the farm itself had been sold, the next-door neighbor had offered to put the Toronto officers up for the duration. Despite being in the next county over, the rural community was well aware that any illicit dealings in their area reflected badly on all of them.

The caravan made good time, stopping only for gas and driver trade-offs until lunchtime, when Zach Callaghan guided them to a decent roadside diner for food and an hour’s worth of not being cooped up in a moving vehicle. Giles was particularly grateful – although he’d _known_ techie travel time tended to be much longer than magical travel time, he hadn’t had to _experience_ it. Not with almost all of his travel in the city environs. He was honestly taken aback that none of his colleagues found anything odd about driving all day.

After lunch, the caravan headed for the nearest gas station, then hopped back on the highway, driving until well into the evening. As the clock edged towards six, Jules’ father got in contact with Lou, taking his turn at driving the lead truck, and recommended stopping for the night. Agreement flowed in from the rest of the group, so Callaghan altered direction and headed for a hotel he’d used in prior trips down to visit his daughter. Once at the hotel, Roy kept Giles away from the older man, stomping on his foot when the Auror opened his mouth to ask why the trip was taking so long.

The next morning, rested, refreshed, and vastly amused by Onasi’s reaction to the hotel’s idea of breakfast, the caravan set out once more, reaching the outskirts of Medicine Hat, Alberta by lunchtime. Their host greeted them, then helped tuck Team One’s trucks in his barn to keep anyone from realizing Toronto law enforcement had come to pay a visit. Although the Toronto officers had no _official_ authority outside of their home territory, between their Auror badges and a little discrete string pulling from Commander Holleran, they were covered.

Once the trucks were hidden, Team One pitched in to help set the farmer’s table and get dinner together, all of them following Jules’ lead – they were city boys and unused to a rural environment. Hodgkin and his wife traded a few chuckles at the officers’ askance looks, then stepped in to show the city slickers how it was done. After dinner, Hodgkin and his wife cleared the table, then left their visitors alone to plan their strategy.

* * * * *

Auror Giles Onasi was well aware that Sergeant Ed Lane was _not_ happy having two Guns ‘n’ Gangs detectives tag along on a simple Missing Persons investigation. He was also well aware that Lane’s unhappiness had _far_ more to do with his _brother’s_ presence than any real danger. Inwardly, the Auror cringed. Parker’s death had destroyed his former team – both he and Roy agreed it was only a matter of time before Team One went their separate ways, unable to cope with the memories and the ghost of their fallen leader.

In the _meantime_ , the whole of Team One was overreacting in a thousand different ways, but every last _one_ of them had taken overprotectiveness to entirely new heights. The worst of it was, Giles couldn’t even _blame_ them – he _still_ hovered over Roy whenever a situation even _hinted_ at going sideways. Still crafted contingency plans left, right, and center to keep those he loved and cared about _safe_. That he’d not been able to save _Parker_ burned at him, even though there’d been no _possible_ way he could have changed the outcome.

He shook the morbid thoughts away and focused back on Lane and Wordsworth. “You want us to do what they did?” Giles asked, tone carefully neutral.

“Well, you’re out-of-towners, so we can’t do an _exact_ scenario,” Wordy pointed out. “But getting you two inside that station would give us a look at how they handle this sort of thing in general.”

Roy glanced over at his brother’s closed, unhappy expression. “So, what, we just crash at the local bar, pretend to get drunk, and…”

“Won’t work,” Jules’ father interjected.

All attention turned to the dark-haired man, though the brunet detective turned indignant. “I can pull a drunk act!”

“The bartender,” Giles realized. “He would know.”

Callaghan nodded unhappily. “He’s friends with most of the deputies. There’s nothing that goes on in that bar that he doesn’t know about and he’s really good at spotting sleight of hand tricks.”

The Auror frowned, eyes flicking back and forth as he debated potential options. No matter _how_ good the man was, a brief, simple Notice-Me-Not Charm would keep him from seeing the alcohol Vanished. Or, just to be on the safe side, Giles could haul along Sobering and Headache Potions, thus neatly skipping the issue of what the bartender saw. Feeling Roy’s gaze, he looked to his partner, hands moving in a Team One ‘all-clear’ signal. Aloud, he said, “I can handle that part.”

Team One relaxed at the pronouncement, earning Giles a curious, searching look from Callaghan. On the brunet’s other side, Roy cleared his throat. “So! We go in, get arrested, and then Ed bails us out the next morning?”

“Or I could,” Jules offered.

“Better not, Julie,” her father countered. “The sheriff knows I’m an ex-cop.”

Jules groaned. “You’ve been poking around already, Dad?”

Callaghan’s embarrassed silence spoke volumes. Then, in an attempt to be nonchalant, he remarked, “Well, you know me, Julie.”

“Julie?” Roy asked, a lilt to his voice and a touch of mischief in gray eyes. Giles shook his head at his partner, but the lean man completely ignored it.

But rather than exploding, Jules simply shrugged. “I started using Jules in college,” she explained. Then her eyes narrowed. “Dad and my brothers get a pass, Roy. Not _you_.”

Ed coughed loudly. “Drop it, Roy. If we start talking about _names_ …”

To Giles’ surprise, Roy flushed bright red. “You _swore_ you’d never tell!”

“I haven’t,” the lean sniper replied calmly. “And I won’t, if you leave Jules alone.”

Roy opened his mouth to retort and Giles elbowed him, casting his partner a ‘shut-up’ glare. Given how on edge the whole of Team One was, pushing any farther was liable to end with their heads chopped off.

For a minute, tension hung, then Ed’s shoulders slumped. “Roy,” he said, leaning forward and meeting his brother’s eyes. “Be careful.”

All jocularity dropped away. “We’ll be careful, Ed,” Roy promised. “See you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early,” the Sergeant vowed.

* * * * *

“So what’s the plan, partner?” Roy asked as he guided his battered old sedan down the country road that led towards Lyndhurst Flats. Now that they were safely away from Team One and Jules’ father, the detective intended to get the lowdown.

At first, Giles didn’t respond, gazing out the window at the massive fields and wide open spaces. Roy understood – both of them were city boys; he’d been rather taken aback at the idea that Lyndhurst Flats only had _one_ bar. The crops waved in the wind, planted in neat rows and perhaps a meter tall – Roy _did_ know enough about farming to know the plants were still growing and destined to get _much_ taller. In a field on the driver’s side, cows grazed, flicking their tails and completely uninterested in the lone sedan making its way down the road.

After a minute or two, the wizard shook himself and got back to business. “Dealer’s choice,” he remarked, smirking at his friend’s askance look. “I can spend all evening Vanishing the stuff or we can actually get drunk and take Sobering Potions before we get arrested.”

Roy made a face. “Hangover headache in lockup?”

“I’ve got Headache Potions, too.”

_Well_ now…that put a much better spin on things. Even so, Roy cast his partner a sidelong glance. “Worried about the guy being a Squib?”

Giles hiked a shoulder. “Notice-Me-Not should work either way, but yeah, kinda.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I guess you really can’t tell anymore, who has magic and who doesn’t. I mean, never would’ve pegged _Wordy_ as a Squib.”

Roy snorted. “Not enough like a wizard for you?” Beneath the joking tone, a hint of scorn lurked.

The Auror fidgeted. “Come on, Roy, you know I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…”

“You’re used to tech-borns being the only ones who didn’t know about magic before?”

“Something like that,” Giles admitted. “Never really thought about where their magic came from or anything like that.”

“Not until you met us, huh?” Roy’s voice turned a bit wistful.

Onasi shook his head, then changed the subject. “Hey, you mind if I ask you something?”

Roy braked for an upcoming red light, then flicked a quick look at his friend. “Shoot.”

“How come you and Ed never got along before?”

The brunet huffed. “You never fought with your brother growing up?”

One shoulder hiked. “Two sisters, no brothers,” Giles replied. “And sure we fought, but Mum and Dad never let us drag it out. A day, two at the most, then they’d sit us all down and demand we make up.” Brown eyes darkened with memory. “Mum always said family was too important for petty squabbles.”

For several minutes, Roy was silent, thinking even as he guided the car along the country roads. When he spoke, the words were slow. “I think Mom would try,” he confessed. “And I’ll kill you if you ever tell, but I always wanted to be like him.”

“That’s why you’re a cop.”

“Something like that.” Roy paused long enough to check for oncoming traffic before turning left. “I dunno, we just…rubbed each other wrong. Always have, even after I met you. You don’t even _wanna_ know how many times I had to bite my tongue those first couple of months.” At the startled, curious glance, the brunet squirmed. “Like I said, we rub each other wrong. Put us in the same room and we’d always end up fighting.”

Onasi cocked his head to the side. “So what changed?”

“I’m not sure.” Again, the detective paused, thinking hard. “Just…after McKean, it was like…that’s my brother. He almost died, almost went to _prison_ for something he didn’t even _do_.”

“You almost died, too,” the Auror murmured.

“Yeah…” Silence hung between them, then Roy huffed a weak laugh. “Wonder what Grandma Beloved would think of us now.”

Both brows arched. “ _Beloved_?”

The detective chuckled. “That’s what we always called her. Kind of an odd old bird.”

“Sounds like it,” Giles mused. Roy laughed again and the car fell into a comfortable quiet.

* * * * *

At the bar, they ordered their first drinks and settled at an out-of-the-way table with a decent view. Roy took a sip of his drink and muttered something about rotgut and paint thinner; Onasi nodded once, accepting his partner’s decision. Vanishing spells it was. Beneath the table, the Auror drew his wand and cast a Notice-Me-Not charm on the table. The charm wouldn’t prevent the bartender from seeing them or his table, but he wouldn’t be able to tell that his customers were drinking with empty glasses. A second spell Vanished their first set of drinks; Roy twitched a smirk, but picked up the empty glass to take a ‘drink’.

It was unfortunate that ‘getting drunk’ and causing a ruckus would take some time, most of it spent sitting in a country town bar that had certainly seen far better days. Giles opened with an idle question about the Toronto Blue Jays, earning an incredulous glare.

“Sports?” Roy hissed. “That’s the _best_ you can do?”

“I could do Quidditch or Quodpot instead if you want,” Giles sulked.

Roy blinked, then groaned. “You have _got_ to get out more, partner.” After a moment, he snapped, “Well, go on.”

Embarrassed, the Auror fidgeted. “Morgana usually followed the Applejacks.”

“The _Applejacks_?”

“I didn’t name them. I guess they thought it was funny or something. They’re not half-bad, usually end up in the middle of the rankings. Got a pretty good pre-game show.”

“You don’t really have a team?”

Another fidget. “I played in school. Just a youth league, nothing fancy. I like playing more than watching.”

Roy grunted agreement on that point. Then, with a little help from his smartphone, he launched into a loud speculation on the Blue Jay’s chances in the season. Giles followed his partner’s lead, debating just as fiercely in complete, obstinate opposition.

* * * * *

In the end, although it took a bit longer than the men had expected, it was ridiculously easy to ‘get drunk’ and cause quite a kerfuffle in the bar. Roy acted up and Giles played at being the ‘responsible’ friend, rolling his eyes and generally keeping Roy from going completely overboard. The only hitch came as the deputy escorted them out and ‘accidentally’ tripped Roy, who was mouthing off as they reached the curb. The lean detective tumbled, falling heavily into the waiting patrol car. The angle of his fall was either horrible or absolutely perfect; Roy’s shoulder struck the taillight, cracking the glass and ticking off the deputy even though _he’d_ been the one to trip the undercover detective.

* * * * *

“You okay, partner?” Giles hissed after the deputy who’d arrested them finally left.

“Owww,” Roy moaned, rolling his shoulder. He flinched partway through the motion and froze.

“Stop, let me take a look.” Onasi moved behind his friend, but Roy jerked away.

“No, I’m okay. Let’s just do this; you can do that tomorrow.”

Giles’ eyes narrowed, but he nodded once, catching Roy’s underlying message – if he pulled his wand, any surveillance camera would see it, busting the Statute of Secrecy in one easy step. “You take the bottom, all right?”

The detective stiffened for an instant, then sighed and nodded. Searching the beds was beyond him, but he could still squirm into the cracks and crevices of the cell, even with an injured shoulder. “Copy.”

The pair separated, Roy going low while Giles started turning both of the bunk beds inside out, feeling in the pillows and sheets for anything suspicious. Roy crawled around the cell, doing his best to keep from hitting his head as he searched the cracks and crevices in the walls. His shoulder ached, but he pushed that aside with an iron determination. The odds that they’d find any clues to the missing journalists was low, but they had to investigate while they had the opportunity. The last place he checked was under the bunk beds. Internally, he slumped. Nothing but dust. Then a glint of something caught his eye and he scooted farther underneath. One hand wrapped around his find and he worked his way back and out from under the beds.

Once he was back in the light, he inspected his find and felt his stomach drop. “Giles.”

His partner stopped, glancing down to see what Roy had found.

Mute, Roy held it up, just enough for Giles to see. A broken, bloodstained digital voice recorder.

* * * * *

Deputy Saunders made a face at the security camera feed. “What are they _doing_ , checking for bed bugs?”

“Lemme see,” his boss demanded.

Shrugging, the deputy turned the monitor. “Buncha idiots,” he pronounced.

Sheriff Wallace didn’t respond as he watched the two out-of-town drunks. The brunet’s eyes narrowed, mouth tightening below his mustache. There was something _funny_ going on with those two…

“Saunders? You got that guy’s car?”

“Sure do, Sheriff. Whatcha need?”

“Run the plates. I wanna know what those two are _after_.”

“They’re just drunks, Sheriff.”

“Drunks who are searchin’ their own cell! Run the plates!”

“Yessir.”

Scowling, Wallace returned to his office and reached for his phone. If they had _another_ group of _troublemakers_ on their hands, the judge was going to have his _head_. ‘Specially after what had happened to the _last_ two.


	3. Prison Sentence?

It was unfortunate that none of them had realized until after Roy and Giles left that Roy’s car was the _only_ one that wouldn’t raise red flags with local law enforcement. Ed, Wordy, and Sam tossed around ideas for the rest of the long, anxious evening, but in the end bowed to the realization that they’d have to use Zach Callaghan’s car to pick the undercover detectives up. Any cop worth his salt would recognize the tactical nature of Team One’s trucks and the Sergeant flatly _refused_ to consider involving Farmer Hodgkin and his wife any more than necessary.

Early the next morning, Ed checked his phone, scowling at the lack of contact from his brother, then hesitantly asked Jules’ father for a ride to the station. Callaghan winced, but nodded and grabbed his breakfast to go, though he waited until Mrs. Hodgkin pressed a toast and bacon sandwich on the officer before leading the way to his car. Though the Sergeant’s stomach was twisting with a painfully familiar anxiety, hunger soon won out over fear and the sandwich disappeared in minutes.

* * * * *

Ed strolled into the police station, doing his best to look more annoyed and irritated than worried. Striding up to the front desk, he waited for the man – the sheriff, according to the desk’s nameplate – to look up from his paperwork.

“Help you?”

“Hope so,” the lean man replied. “My brother and his friend were supposed to meet up with me last night, but they never showed.”

The pen paused, the sheriff casting a brief glance up. “You here to report them missing, sir?”

Ed see-sawed one hand. “Maybe. See, thing is, sometimes Roy finds himself the local bar and gets himself in trouble.”

The sheriff, brunet with a fairly neat mustache, nodded, catching on. “You’re here to check the drunk tank.”

“Yeah.”

Setting the pen down, the sheriff turned to a row of folders and files. As he rummaged through them, he asked, “What was the name again?”

“Roy Lane.” Frowning in thought, Ed added, “His friend… George… Gilligan… Something with a ‘G’. I think his last name is Onasi.”

“Giles,” the sheriff filled in with a tiny chuckle.

“That’s the name,” Lane agreed at once.

For several seconds, the man flipped through the paperwork inside the files. “Well… Sorry to disappoint you, but they got moved over to the county jail in Sinclair.”

“Moved? Why?”

“Don’t know, sorry.”

 _Yeah…right…and I’m the Easter Bunny._ Rather than call the man on the obvious lie, Ed scowled heavily. “Well, can I get an address?”

“Sure thing.”

The Toronto officer watched the sheriff jot down the address for the Sinclair county jail on a Post-It note and nodded thanks when the man passed it over. Address in hand, Ed headed back to Callaghan’s car, stomach twisting into fresh knots. How had a simple drunk and disorderly turned into a trip to the county jail?

* * * * *

The Sergeant voiced the question as Jules’ father drove towards Sinclair. The other man shrugged. “Maybe Roy and Giles kicked up too much of a fuss?”

“No.” The word was firm, with no give to it. “They wouldn’t do that, not after what happened to Greg.”

Callaghan cast him a sidelong look. “Julie told me your brother once went undercover solo and just about got himself killed.”

Ed winced. “He did,” the Sergeant acknowledged, tone soft with regret.

For a long minute, the bald man gazed out at the passing fields, full of crops and animals. To open up to a _stranger_ was anathema, but he trusted Jules. Every day. She trusted her father, so maybe he could too. Even so, his every instinct was to huddle in. Hide his hurts and his history from anyone outside his family – blood and chosen. But the wounds from Greg’s death were festering, building up pressure and emotional poison. The longer he went without his friend, the more his emotions churned, the more his grief engulfed him. Talking about Roy, even if it exposed him, was safe. Easier, by far, than talking about Greg beyond the basics.

“Roy and I, we never got along growing up,” Ed admitted. “He got away with everything, but if I came in a minute after curfew, I got grounded. Didn’t exactly make for a good relationship.” One shoulder hiked. “We weren’t talking much, even before his partner was killed. My team was on that call; we ordered them to stand down, but they went in anyway. Jerome got shot and coded on the table, so Roy got all the blame.”

Callaghan whistled low, but kept quiet.

“I sat Roy down and told him he had to make it right.” The sniper let out a snort. “So he goes undercover _solo_ to take down the weapons dealer who put that shotgun on the street.”

“Not exactly what you had in mind, was it?”

“Not hardly,” Ed agreed. “But you know what? It worked. It was crazy and dangerous and it worked.” Stopping, Lane let his head drop, swallowing hard. “Giles…he was working with us, but he’d had a run-in with that weapons dealer before. Had special dispensation to work solo ‘cause of that run-in. Once Watson was dead, that expired and he knew Roy needed a new partner, too.”

“So they ended up partners?”

A slow nod. “Was a bit bumpy at first, ‘specially with _us_ , but we started patching things up. Still rubbed each other wrong, so it was slow.” Until Suzanne and McKean and everything else that had come crashing down. After that… As if someone had thrown a switch somewhere, he’d finally realized. Roy was his brother; Roy had almost _died_. _Twice_. Whatever squabbles they had, it was nothing compared to _almost losing his brother_.

Once the aftermath of McKean had died down, he’d invited Roy for a family dinner, honestly expecting his brother to refuse. But Roy had come and after that, well, the brothers had been wary and uncertain of each other, even as they started rebuilding a relationship. It would never be what it could have been, would never be what Ed had with Greg or Wordy or Team One, but bit by bit, layer by layer, he and Roy were becoming brothers. Brothers in truth, not just by blood. The Roy who’d gone undercover, bitter and grieving, bore only the faintest resemblance to the brother who stood beside him now. Oh, Roy still missed Jerome and always _would_ , but he’d moved forward. Gotten a new partner and earned auxiliary Team One status. _This_ Roy would never again take the chances he had back then because he _knew_. Knew his life was important and valued, that to lose _him_ would rip yet another hole in his big brother’s world.

“Look, he wouldn’t do that to us. Giles wouldn’t either. They’re too good to blow an undercover op like this.”

Callaghan frowned, somehow understanding that Ed had no intention of explaining himself further. “Okay,” he murmured and yet there was something in his face that made the knots in the Sergeant’s stomach wrench even tighter. Whatever was wrong, Callaghan already had an idea of what it was. Somehow, Ed didn’t think that meant anything good for his brother.

* * * * *

Zach Callaghan followed the tense SRU Sergeant into the Sinclair county jail. Ed stalked up to the main desk, expression a mix of annoyance, irritation, and concern. An officer hastened over, easily identifying the lean man as someone looking for a potentially incarcerated friend.

Leaning against the counter, Ed drawled, “Hi, I’m looking for Roy Lane and Giles Onasi. The sheriff in Lyndhurst Flats said they’d been transferred here.”

“All right, let’s see what we’ve got, Mister…?”

“Ed Lane.”

For several minutes, the other man worked his computer, a scowl appearing and growing deeper the longer he worked. On the opposite side, Ed studied the man. About Greg’s height, with that same half-bald look his friend had always carried off with aplomb. This man had lost more of his hair; the remnants made a sad attempt to appear brown, but were more of a light gray. Pale blue eyes narrowed at the computer screen, a partial snarl of frustration surfacing, but the officer looked as though he spent more time chasing donuts than criminals.

At last, he shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Lane, but I’m not finding either one in the computer. They weren’t transferred here. You’ll have to go back to Lyndhurst Flats.”

Ed opened his mouth to bluster, only to have Callaghan jab him in the side with an elbow. “Thank you for checking, Officer,” he said, stepping on the taller man’s foot to keep him quiet. “We’ll do that.” Then he dragged the Sergeant outside, not stopping until they were back at his car.

Lane yanked his arm free and landed Callaghan with a truly _deadly_ glare. “What the _hell_ was that?”

“Get in the car. They aren’t here and they never were.”

“You know something.”

“I know we’re wasting time, now get in the car.”

Fear rose, wrapping bands of iron around his soul. He wanted to pin Callaghan to the _wall_ and shake him until he _explained_ , but they needed to get back to the team and start figuring out how to get his brother back. He couldn’t lose anyone else. Not after Greg.

* * * * *

Wordy blinked in surprise when he spotted one solitary sedan pulling into the driveway. An uneasy feeling stirred in his gut – if something happened to either Roy or Giles… Well, he wasn’t sure _what_ would happen, but it wouldn’t be anything good. Their team was barely holding on as it was.

 _Sarge…_ Internally, the brunet cringed, as he always did whenever his thoughts brushed against the gaping hole in their world. Everything he’d done for them and they’d just walked away and let him fall. None of them, except for Ed, had been willing to hang tough and not give up. Not a single member of the team had questioned the overnight change in behavior. Never wondered why the bottles of alcohol were only in Sarge’s locker and bedroom. None in the fridge or the car. No boxes with _additional_ bottles squirreled away…what kind of alcoholic only had a couple bottles – all _unopened_? The clues had been there, they just hadn’t bothered to _investigate_. Or even _look_.

“Word, team meeting.”

Wordy nodded and headed inside, somehow not surprised that the car had pulled up and parked while he’d been lost in thought and grief. Sarge had tricked them all, but they had _let_ him. Taken everything at face value instead of digging for the _truth_. That was on them and they’d spend the rest of their _lives_ paying for that decision.

His teammates were already assembled in the same room they’d used for strategizing the night before. Spike and Lou were huddled over a laptop while Sam and Jules were in opposite corners, one with a book and the other with a magazine. Lou glanced up from whatever he and Spike were looking at. “That took longer than I thought.”

The team leader shook his head. “They came back alone, guys.”

Attention snapped to him. “What?” Jules demanded, almost dropping her book. “Where are they?”

“That is what we’re gonna find out,” Ed announced, stalking into the room and to the head of the table. Wordy waited for Callaghan to enter before shifting to be behind him, between the dark-haired man and the door. Spike half closed the laptop, Lou sitting at attention. Sam and Jules rose from their chairs and swooped in to bracket their Sergeant, both glaring at the likely source of the problem.

He fidgeted. “Julie.”

“Jules,” she hissed, not an ounce of give in her voice. “Where are Roy and Giles?”

Callaghan reeled, completely caught off guard by the venom in his daughter’s words. After a moment, he swallowed, eyeing the angry Toronto officers. “There’s… There’s a few things I might’ve left out,” he admitted. “Have any of you ever heard of Judge Roland Paxton?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Ed snapped. “Where’s my brother?”

At the deadly glares he was getting, Jules’ father gulped. “I think they’re in the county prison.”

* * * * *

Roy winced at the pained expression on Giles’ face when the prison guards demanded they remove their civilian clothing and change into gaudy orange jumpsuits. For most of their clothes, the demand was more annoying than anything else, but for Giles’ precious, priceless dragonhide jacket, it was a different story.

“Look,” Roy intervened, “Can he keep the jacket? His late wife gave it to him.” When the lead guard started to sneer, the brunet stepped forward, glaring. “She was murdered and his son was kidnapped. Came back over a decade later with a _real_ bad case of Stockholm’s.”

Giles flushed, but Roy didn’t care. Not if it meant his friend could keep the jacket. The guards paused, their leader thinking the matter over before he glanced at Onasi. “Please,” the Auror whispered, flushing brighter still.

After a minute, the leader grunted. “Give it to me and I’ll get it back to you once you’re inside.”

Both undercover officers grimaced, but knew better than to argue. Instead, they retreated to the changing rooms. Roy spared a moment to be grateful Giles had taken the opportunity during the prison transport to heal his injured shoulder. The detective changed rapidly, trying to ignore the vivid orange of the jumpsuit – it didn’t work. Gazing at his own clothing, Roy wondered if he would ever see any of it again, then picked up the pile, shoulders slumping. Before he could head back out, Giles rapped on the wall next to the thick tan curtain that formed the changing room ‘door’.

“Decent.”

Poking his head in, Giles flushed yet again, but murmured, “Thanks.”

“Didn’t work.”

One shoulder hiked. “Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t.” He paused, then smirked. “Now give me your clothes.”

“I don’t swing that way,” Roy snarked, even as he obeyed.

“Yeah, whatever,” the Auror retorted, leading the way back to the guards. Once back, Onasi turned over Roy’s clothing, then his own, and finally his jacket. The clothing went in bags, already labeled with their names, and the jacket was tucked away before the partners followed the man towards the prison’s shoe supply. Roy was rather surprised when the man behind the counter proved to be a prisoner instead of a guard.

“Well, well, well, two newbies to our happy little family?” the blond drawled, leaning on his counter. A generous layer of scruff covered his lower jaw, just shy of being a beard, and his hair was just as messy.

“Shoes, Pink,” one of the guards ordered.

“As you wish,” Pink replied, not at all phased by the guard’s rebuke. “Shoe sizes, gentlemen?”

“I’m a size ten,” Roy said. Jerking his thumb at his partner, he added, “He’s ten and a half.” Let the guards – and Pink – draw their own conclusions. As a half-blood from a fairly affluent family, Giles’ three custom-made pairs of boots fit perfectly – and had been made for him by a cobbler who’d known the family for _years_. No standard shoe sizes involved…the only reason _Roy_ knew his partner’s shoe size was because he’d once dragged Giles to a shoe store for sneakers. The wizard had finagled his way out of _buying_ any sneakers, but not before the store employee measured his size.

Pink cast him a bit of leer – idiot – and vanished into the stacks behind the counter to find the requested shoes. The detective kept his chin up, ignoring the snickers and sniggers from the guards. Giles glanced between his friend and the guards, expression twisting in confusion and bewilderment; Roy made a mental note to educate his partner on a few of the _seamier_ aspects of techie life.

Coming back, Pink thumped a pair of shoes on the counter, a pair of socks tucked in one of the shoes. “Here’s your size ten,” he announced, leering at Roy again. Then he turned to Giles. “I’m _terribly_ sorry, but we’ve just had a run on half sizes. You’ll have to wear two pairs of socks instead.” So saying, he dropped another pair of shoes on the counter and added the socks a moment later. Still confused, Giles bundled socks and shoes while Roy collected his own and the detectives were herded away from the shoe supply to a cell containing two bunk beds adorned with ragged sheets and pillows.

The shorter brunet waited until the guards left – without giving his jacket back – to ask, “What was that about?”

Roy grimaced. “They think we’re… _together_.”

“Because you know my shoe size?”

“That and the jacket,” Roy admitted.

“Oh.” Giles considered the idea a moment. “Well…we _are_ together.”

His partner almost choked. “Not like _that_ ,” he hissed. “They think you like _me_ the way you liked Morgana.”

It was Giles’ turn to choke, his face almost turning green as he finally grasped what Roy was saying. “That’s… That’s _disgusting_.”

“I know,” Roy muttered. “I don’t like it either, but it might come in handy.”

Giles went brick red, but didn’t argue, though he still looked green around the edges. “Now what?”

“Not sure,” his partner replied, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You still got your you-know-what?”

“Yep,” the Auror confirmed, tapping his forearm where his disillusioned backup wand holster lurked. A smirk surfaced, one Roy eyed with trepidation. “Did I ever tell you what I got on my Transfiguration and Charms NEWTs?”

“You did something,” Roy hissed, realization dawning. “Skip the bragging and get to the point, Onasi.”

The smirk grew wider. Then Giles reached down into the jumpsuit’s shirt pocket and pulled something out. A careful tap dropped the object’s invisibility spell, revealing a small black beaded bag. The Auror tapped it again and it disappeared. “You know,” he remarked, “They should really keep a better eye on their laundry. Never know what might happen to it.”

Roy blinked. Then he snickered. “You mean?”

“Yep.”

At that, the detective started laughing. Trust Giles to be three steps ahead of him. All that effort to keep ahold of Giles’ precious dragonhide jacket and it hadn’t even been _necessary_. Wiping tears away, he glanced up. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Onasi countered. At the startled freeze, he cocked his head. “When do you think I did the spells?”

“You’re an idiot,” Roy breathed – _that_ close to the guards?

Giles snorted. “Not like _that_ ,” he drawled, crossing his arms. “I didn’t even _know_ they were gonna take our stuff. While you distracted them, I did a preservation spell on those bags to keep the transfiguration from wearing off too soon.”

“You’re still an idiot.”

“They never noticed. Not my first time doing this, you know.”

Roy paused, considered that, then tipped his head in acknowledgement. After three years working tech-side, Giles almost certainly had a few more tricks up his sleeve than most wizards did when it came to sneaking magic under techie noses and security cameras. “Top or bottom?”

The other eyed the bunk beds, then shrugged. “I’ll take the bottom; you’re taller.”

“Point,” Roy muttered…the beds didn’t look long enough for his lanky frame.

* * * * *

The mattresses were lumpy and hard, the sheets just as rough and ragged as they looked. Roy didn’t complain at all when Giles cast Cushioning and Anti-Pest spells on the beds, though the detective was careful to stand between his partner and anyone in the hallway. The Auror kept his wand hidden and made sure none of the spells had any visible effects. With nothing else to do, the men took turns working out in the cell’s tiny space, casually debating on a few movies Roy had dragged Giles out to see. Though the Auror had put up quite a fight before Spike and Lou teamed up with Roy to trick the half-blood into a movie night; after that, Roy hadn’t had any trouble convincing his friend to see other movies.

From his perch on the top bunk, Giles opined, “I like the older stuff. Explosions and um…”

“Special effects?” Roy offered, pausing in between sets. “CGI?”

“Yeah, that. It’s cool, but the older stuff is just fun.” The Auror made a face. “I mean, why do they think people talk like that? Ruins the whole story.”

“Some do,” the detective panted in the middle of his last pushup. He stopped long enough to finish, then used a quick shove to get back to his feet. “Talk like that, I mean. There’s a reason we say someone can swear like a sailor.” Shuffling back to give his friend space to get off the bunk, he continued, “I know what you mean though, buddy. Sometimes it’s like they swear just to make themselves look cool. Some people like that; they think it makes movies ‘realistic’.”

“Realistic,” Giles echoed, eyes wide. “ _I’ve_ never heard any cops swear like they do in the movies.”

Roy rolled his eyes. “That’s ‘cause we usually don’t. Spike told me once that an SIU gal called swearing a ‘loss of control’.”

“What do you think?”

The brunet shrugged. “I used to swear more,” he admitted. “But, ah, Jerome’s wife didn’t want us swearing around the kids, so we stopped.” He considered. “Makes it easier to talk to civvies, too. Don’t have to watch what you say if you aren’t swearing anyway.”

Squirming down off the bed, Giles remarked, “The older movies…they don’t swear as much.”

“Most of ‘em don’t,” Roy granted. “Some of ‘em are worse than anything we’ve seen, though. Usually the R-rated ones.”

Onasi made a face, then changed the subject. “So how’d they do the special effects in the older movies?”

The detective shrugged and scrambled up out of the way as Giles opted to start with a set of crunches. “The animated ones are easy,” he explained. “They’re basically all drawings.”

“Drawings?” Giles blurted, jerking upright.

“Yep. Anything they wanted to do, they just drew it in. Easy-peasy.” Roy tilted his head, thinking. “Some of the shots might’ve needed something more; we can look that up when we get out if you want.”

Scooting back into position, Giles nodded. “What about the other type?”

“Live-action?” The detective slouched, musing. “Models, stuntmen, setting things up just right.” He snickered. “Who knows, maybe they had a couple wizards helping. They _do_ call it Industrial Light and _Magic_.”

The Auror laughed, knowing just as well as his partner how _unlikely_ such a prospect was. “So…all the old animated movies you showed me, they’re remaking them with real people?”

One shoulder hiked. “Seems like it,” he agreed. “Some of ‘em are really good, but don’t tell Ed I said that.”

Giles cast his friend an evil smirk. “You’re just making sure Izzy will like them.”

Roy laughed, nodding gleeful agreement. “So… _Lord of the Rings_ marathon when we get outta here?”

“ _Gundam Wing_ ,” Giles countered. “Giant robots, explosions, what’s not to like?”

The taller brunet groaned, covering his face. “I’ve created an anime _monster_. Next you’re gonna want _Zoids_.”

“ _Hunt for Red October_?” the Auror asked hopefully. “That guy from _Clue_ is in it.”

“Fine, fine…but whatever you pick, we’re doing _Lord of the Rings_ next, got it?”

“Copy that, partner.” Giles considered, then asked, “And after that we can do _G-Saviour_ , right?”

“All those lousy reviews and you _still_ wanna see it?” Roy demanded.

“Live-action Gundams,” the Auror replied, as if that explained it all.

Sadly, Roy realized, it probably did.


	4. Road to Nowhere

Roy groaned internally when the prison shoe supply inmate was pushed into the cell right next to theirs. _Wonderful_ , now they had a whole evening of insults and slurs to look forward to. To his surprise, Pink ignored them in favor of curling up on the lower bunk in his cell and going to sleep. The detectives traded skeptical glances – the sun wasn’t even all the way down – but kept quiet nonetheless in deference to the – apparently – sleeping man.

An hour later, Roy scooted under his covers, doing his best to pretend the mattress was just as lumpy and uncomfortable as it looked; no need for the guards to investigate and find out about the Cushioning Charms. Below him, Giles did the same, though a low grumble informed the taller detective that the beds weren’t just too short for _him_ ; they were too short for Giles as well.

Outside, the lights clicked off, throwing the corridor into deep shadow. Beneath the thin covers, Roy shivered, irrationally wishing for his brother. Despite all their years of rivalry and friction, there had always been a part of him that looked up to Ed. Even now, when Parker’s death had crushed his indomitable brother, Ed would’ve known what to do. How to get them out of this mess they’d landed in. Frankly, Roy was hoping Giles had a few ideas, ‘cause he was fresh out. A clatter came from the next cell. The detective froze, instinct a prickle at the back of his neck.

“Pink?” A low whisper. Roy peered towards the sound, just making out a dark-skinned man in the corridor.

“Shep? What’re you doin’ comin’ back so late?” the prisoner in the next cell asked; Roy could just see him peeking out around the lower bunk’s supports.

The other man, Shep, slipped into the cell, the grin on his face visible despite the dimness. “Got ‘em,” the big man hissed.

Roy shifted to see better; keys dangled from Shep’s hand and the officer was willing to bet a _year’s_ salary that Shep was _not_ supposed to have them. Beneath him, the bunk creaked – Giles craned to watch, flicking a glance up at his partner.

“How’d you get ‘em?” Pink whispered, a tint of fear and urgency to the words. Roy buried a smirk – Shep had yet to realize the next cell was _occupied_.

“Wasn’t easy,” Shep replied. Creeping closer, he announced – _announced_ – “Look, I got it all figured out. We’re bustin’ out of here first thing tomorrow.”

“ _Shhh!_ ” Pink hissed, sounding almost like a snake in his frantic attempt to get his compatriot to _shut up_.

“What’s wrong?”

Roy waited for Pink to gesture towards them, then cast the horrified Shep an ironic and deliberately sloppy salute.

“Damn. Who’re _they_?”

“Newbs,” Pink sneered and Roy just _knew_ the guy was leering again.

“I don’t care what they are. They could foul up my plan good.”

“Why?” Pink asked, confusion radiating.

“If three’s a crowd, then four’s a _mob_ when it comes to escaping,” Shep growled.

“ ‘Scuse me,” Roy called, keeping his voice low. “We aren’t goin’ anywhere.”

“That’s what _you_ think.”

“Shep, Shep, why d’ they hafta come with us?” Pink demanded.

“ ‘Cause they know we’re going, that’s why. What’s to stop ‘em from blowin’ the whistle the minute we make our break?”

“Our word,” Giles piped up, not liking where the conversation was going any more than Roy did.

“See, we have their word,” Pink cajoled, sounding as if he very much did _not_ want to escape with two hangers-on.

“Shut up, Pink. I say they’re coming and that’s final.”

The detectives traded glances, then Roy drawled, “Don’t _we_ get a say in this?”

Shep turned to face them head-on through the bars. “Look, you either go with us or you go six feet under. Personally, I’d just as soon not kill you, but I ain’t comin’ back here.”

Roy opened his mouth to respond, but Giles spoke first. “Hey, Roy, it’s not like they charged us with anything, right?”

The brunet paused, blinking. Frankly, with two of them, he doubted Shep could actually carry out his threat – especially since his partner was still armed, but Giles had a point. They hadn’t been charged with anything beyond a drunk ‘n’ disorderly. Certainly nothing to warrant ending up in _prison_. They had no backup, particularly since Team One didn’t know they’d been moved to the prison and Callaghan’s suspicions about local law enforcement were proving to be more than a bit of an understatement of the problem. _Staying_ , in light of all that, was probably a _bad_ idea.

“No charges?” Pink echoed, shaking his head. “Sounds like the Sheriff is up to tricks again, eh, Shep?”

“This has happened _before_?” Roy demanded.

“Where you been all your life?” Pink retorted. “Judge Paxton _owns_ this county.”

“You in or out?” Shep broke in.

The partners traded a very grim look. “We’re in,” Roy replied. “What’s your plan?”

Shep puffed up. “We go out in the truck.”

“What truck?” Giles asked.

The man held up the keys he’d swiped. “The one that starts with this key. It’ll be right outside in the morning. All we gotta do is get over the fence and we’re home free.”

Roy arched a brow. “And…how’re we gettin’ over a four-and-a-half meter fence in broad daylight?”

Shep froze, then turned sullen. “I was working on it.”

Giles coughed to cover his laugh, but Roy was less than impressed. “Just great; you’re _brilliant_ , you know that? The most important part of the plan and you were _working on it_?”

“Well, you got a better idea?”

Techie and wizard traded looks. “ _Mission Impossible_ theme?” Giles offered.

“ _Ghost Protocol_ style,” Roy agreed, smirking. “I always wanted to start a prison riot.”

“I get to light the fuse,” Giles declared.

“No, you get to open all the doors,” Roy countered. “We don’t have Spike to play Benji.”

The wizard pouted, but nodded acceptance.

Shifting on his bunk to look at the bewildered inmates, Roy asked, “You guys know your way around this place?”

“Sure,” Pink agreed. “I know where everything is. Same with Shep here.”

“Okay then, leave it to us. We can set everything up tonight and get out of here tomorrow morning.”

“And you two can fill us in on the sheriff and that judge guy,” Giles added.

* * * * *

Shep, of course, insisted on getting everything set up first; after a hasty, whispered confab with Roy, Giles went with the big man and the pair snuck around the prison to set up their plan. The place was woefully underguarded and the security system was a _joke_ , even _without_ magic. The Auror no longer wondered how Shep had gotten ahold of the truck keys – instead he wondered what had taken the man so long. They even had time to set up the prison’s PA system to play two songs, a fact that had Giles sniggering and Shep bewildered at how they were supposed to set the prank off.

* * * * *

With all preparations for the actual escape complete, the detectives and inmates returned to their respective cells, settling in for an evening… _discussion_. Giles was grateful for the lack of leering from Pink – a glance at Roy’s smug expression told the Auror that his partner had _educated_ the inmate in the _facts_ of their relationship. Friends, best friends, even, but definitely _not_ ‘together’.

“So…you two said something earlier about the sheriff and some judge,” Roy began, leaning forward. “Care to explain yourselves?”

“I ain’t explaining _nothin’_ ,” Shep declared.

One brow rose and Giles crossed his arms. “You want out of here?” he inquired, an acid edge to the question.

“ _Yeah_.”

“Then _talk_ ,” Roy ordered.

The big black man pouted, but Pink scrubbed a hand through his hair. “How familiar are you gentlemen with the Right _Honorable_ Judge Paxton?”

“Never heard of him,” Roy replied flatly.

* * * * *

“He owns this county,” Callaghan explained. “Virtually every law enforcement officer around here answers to _him_.”

“And?” Jules pressed, the word sharp enough to cut steel.

“They started small,” her father said. “A few bogus traffic stops here and there, just to pad their numbers. Fund a few things around town.”

“Always out-of-towners, right?” Lou put in.

“That’s about the size of it,” the older man admitted. “Once they got a taste, they were in. I think Paxton and Sheriff Wallace go way back, but that’s just a hunch.”

Ed’s eyes narrowed. “So they started small and worked their way up to…?”

* * * * *

“Drugs,” Shep spat. “You name it, they’ll run it through the county.”

“Never stays here,” Pink interjected at the confused looks they were getting. “They keep all the towns squeaky-clean, so the voters don’t have anything to complain about.”

Giles whistled low, reluctantly impressed by the strategy. So long as the corruption was kept out of view, so to speak, most people wouldn’t know – or care. “But surely there must be _some_ people who care about what’s going on,” he protested.

“Well, if they do, the good Sheriff pays ‘em a visit,” Pink drawled. “Has a wee little chat with ‘em, maybe even invites ‘em to tour this fine establishment for a day or two.”

“What happens if they keep digging?” Roy asked.

* * * * *

“My last stay was a week,” Callaghan admitted, staring fixedly at the table. “Wallace made sure all the inmates knew I used to be a cop.”

“Oh, Dad,” Jules whispered, fear for her father written all over her face. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“Tell you what, Julie? That your old man’s a jail bird now?”

“Dad!”

“Keeping quiet just helped _them_ ,” Ed growled. “And you know it.”

The older man cringed, but didn’t respond.

“Dad?” Jules coaxed, moving to her father’s side. “What happened?”

* * * * *

“That guy Reston, though, he wasn’t _smart_ enough to _shut it_ ,” Shep jeered.

“Reston?” Giles inquired, tone casual. “Who’s he?”

Pink waved a hand. “Just some reporter. Kept digging and sniffing around, the idiot.”

“Had a friend the last time he was in here,” Shep mused. “You see ‘em, Pink?”

“Briefly,” the prison shoe supplier replied. “They were both too busy mouthing off to the guards to give me their shoe sizes.” A sneer. “Not that that mattered.”

“Why, what happened?” Roy asked.

The blond leaned closer, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. “Heard the guards talking later on. Wallace and Saunders took ‘em over to Sinclair for another little _chat_. They never came back.”

“So much for their scoop,” Shep sniggered.

“Scoop?” Giles pressed.

“Reporters, remember?” Pink drawled. “Of course they had a scoop, otherwise the good Sheriff would’ve left ‘em alone. Reston might’ve been a drunk, but most everyone read his column. He’d been after Paxton for _years_.”

The detectives traded glances and frowns. “Then why kill him now?” the Auror wondered.

* * * * *

“I went to him, Julie,” Callaghan confessed. “Told him I knew he was on the right track and I said I’d help him as much as I could, but I couldn’t go back inside.”

Jules swallowed hard at the idea of her _father_ put in _prison_ by a corrupt sheriff and his crooked boss of a judge. “So he went in alone?”

The retired cop shook his head. “No, he had a contact in the States. Someone with an American watchdog group. I told Reston, you wait till that guy gets here. Don’t go in alone.”

Spike frowned thoughtfully. “So that guy was the second journalist?”

“Yes.” The response was slow. Heavy with regret. “They, ah, they did the same thing your brother and his partner did. That was the last time I saw them.”

The air stilled, thunderclouds gathering around Jules’ infuriated Sergeant. But before Mount Lane could erupt, she hissed, “You _knew_ what could happen and you didn’t _tell us_?” Her father froze, staring at her in surprise, but she wasn’t about to stop. “You sent my _teammates_ in _without_ intel, without _backup_.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “How could you, Dad? I _trusted_ you, I _told_ you what happened to _Sarge_ and you do _this_? You _knew_ they were walking right into a snake pit and you just stood there without saying a _word_.”

Sam’s hand touched her shoulder, his sorrow just as acute as hers; part of her wanted to shrug him away, but the other part reminded her of how much she loved him. How much _Sarge_ had given up for _them_ – all of them. For their _family_ , he’d given up his life, his reputation, his career, even his kids. To shun Sam was to turn her back on Sarge’s sacrifice.

“Jules,” he whispered, “We’ll get them back.”

Tears glimmered in the dark eyes that turned to the sniper. “How?” Jules choked out. “We don’t even know for sure if my Dad is right.”

“We go in,” Wordy growled. “In our trucks, full gear. This guy wants to mess with _our_ teammates, he’s going down.”

“Word’s right,” Ed concurred, expression just as fierce. “We have two missing officers and we have a potential hostage situation. That’s all we need.”

“I’ve got a location for the prison,” Spike piped up.

“Spike, we got either of their phones there?” Lou asked.

The bomb tech shook his head even as he typed at his computer. “No dice, buddy. They’re still in Lyndhurst Flats.”

“Bingo,” Sam hissed triumphantly.

For a moment, Jules was confused, then she grinned. “Proof the sheriff lied to Ed.”

Ed nodded agreement. “All right, here’s how we’re gonna play it. Spike and Lou, you guys will do your thing: find those phones and make sure these guys don’t come up with any more _surprises_.”

“Copy,” Spike agreed, Lou’s nod just as sharp as his best friend’s acknowledgement.

“Word, Sam, once we’re in, keep your eyes open. Anything out of the ordinary, any moves they try to make…”

“We’ll stop ‘em,” Sam promised.

“Jules, you’re primary, but I’ve already talked to this guy…”

“We’ll make it work,” Jules replied. “You take lead and I’ll jump on any inconsistencies.”

“Copy,” the Sergeant murmured, then he straightened. “Okay, guys, get some sleep; we’re going in first thing tomorrow.”


	5. On Turnabouts and Fair Play

Three trucks rolled out of the barn, paint gleaming despite the day and two nights they’d spent inside the dusty building. Zach Callaghan stood with the farmer and his wife, a red handprint across his face – a parting gift from Jules when he’d tried to get her to stay behind and let her teammates handle rescuing Roy and Giles.

Farmer Hodgkin glanced at the former cop, shaking his head. “I told you she’d be a troublemaker,” he chided. “Too much of her mother in her.”

Callaghan looked away. “No,” he admitted. “Too much of _me_ in her.” If it had been one of _his_ teammates on the line, he’d have done worse than the slap.

The stout man chuckled, slapping his former neighbor’s back. “She’s a good ‘un, that’s for sure. She’ll be fine.”

“I hope so.” Callaghan watched the three trucks roar onto the main road, turning towards Lyndhurst Flats. No lights or sirens yet, but they would come. “Stay safe, Julie,” he whispered.

* * * * *

“Spike, let us know when we’re a kilometer out,” Wordy ordered. “Guys, lights and sirens on Spike’s word.”

Acknowledgements rolled in, every member of the team on target and alert. The team leader stepped down on the gas as the truck in front of him accelerated, his Sergeant’s worry and impatience getting the better of him.

The brunet nodded to himself, holding the vehicle steady as it raced down the road. They were as ready as they could be. Silently, just in his own head, the constable prayed they’d get Roy and Giles back safely. They’d already lost Sarge. They couldn’t lose anyone else.

* * * * *

As dawn peeked through the windows, Roy felt someone prod his shoulder. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled into his pillow, shifting to pull the blankets over his head.

“Roy.” A low hiss. “It’s time.”

Time for what? With a groan, the detective started to roll over, only for someone to catch him and physically hold him still.

“Whoa, partner, don’t fall off the bed!”

Fall off the… Roy froze. “I’m awake,” he yelped, rolling back the other way, towards the wall. “I’m awake.” Even with his back against the wall, it still took another minute to knuckle the last of the sleep out of his eyes and finish waking up. Mumbling under his breath, he squirmed out from under the sheets and slithered off the bunk bed. Once down, he cast Giles the evil eye. “What is this,” he complained. “Oh-dark-thirty?”

“Pink and Shep said we gotta make our move before breakfast,” the Auror explained. “After breakfast, everyone gets kicked to work details.”

“Oh _joy_ ,” Roy moaned. An escape plan with no _breakfast_ , how very _delightful_. “This prison riot had _better_ be worth it.” He spared a moment to scrub his hands through his hair, then straightened. “Okay, let’s do it.”

His partner smirked, then adjusted his position to stand even more in front of Roy. Shielded by both their bodies, he pulled his wand and set off his chain of spells.

* * * * *

On the opposite side of the prison, a row of cell doors opened. Their occupants stared at the open doors in confusion for a few seconds, then scrambled forward to freedom. The lone guard patrolling the area took one look at the escaping horde and legged it to one of the master gates. Unfortunately, no sooner had he slammed the gate behind him when it clicked open and refused to lock again. While he was still attempting to force the gate to lock, several inmates reached the gate and slammed it open. The guard tried to run, only to fall under the shouts and fists of the escaped inmates. Behind them, the other inmates, now out of their cells and with no guards present to restrain them, launched into fistfights with each other and started plotting how best to avoid recapture. More than a few also hastened towards other areas of the prison to settle a number of old grudges.

* * * * *

The guards in the prison’s central control room watched in horror as the scene was repeated all across the prison. When the biggest guards attempted to leave the room and assist their fellow guards, they discovered that someone had _locked_ the door. As they struggled to get the door open, the PA system came online and started playing Dean Martin’s “Ain’t That A Kick In The Head”. Several guards, recognizing the thinly veiled reference, started fighting even _harder_ to get out.

* * * * *

“Okay, let’s move,” Roy ordered as the cells in their wing clicked open. He paused long enough to glare at Pink and Shep. “No fistfights.”

“We ain’t that stupid,” Shep protested, but Pink and the two detectives ignored him in favor of hustling towards the closest exit.

Roy made sure to lag just behind his partner, doing his best to keep the two inmates from seeing his partner magically unlock every last door in their path. Not a single guard crossed their path, all of them far too preoccupied with the budding riot on their hands. As they approached the complex’s outer wall, Roy scanned it frantically for another door. “There!” he called, pointing to their right.

“Got it!” Giles called back, adjusting his direction. In five strides, he reached the door, his wand tapping the lock one last time. By the time Roy, Pink, and Shep caught up, the Auror had thrust the door open. “Keys!” he snapped.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Roy retorted, but Shep had already tossed them. Before the detective could snatch the keys from the wizard without a _driver’s license_ , a shout came from behind them.

“Time to go,” Pink yelled, scrambling for the truck with Shep on his heels.

Giles swung up into the driver’s seat, turning the key, then he glanced at Roy. “Light the fuse.”

In spite of himself, Roy grinned; he reached down, pulling a thin piece of wood out. Then he snapped it, smirking as the snap heralded a low hissing noise that quickly dissipated as the flame raced away. In two minutes, it was going to get _very_ loud. Dropping the broken spell key, Roy ran forward, performing a near perfect slide across the hood of the truck before landing and spinning to end up in the passenger side.

As soon as the door closed, Giles slammed down on the accelerator, peeling out. Roy’s grin dropped off his face. Giles was driving. Giles. Was. _Driving_. “Hey partner?” Roy called. “You, ah, you never did take me up on my offer.”

Pink started to leer, then froze as Roy’s fearful, uncertain tone registered. “What offer?”

Roy gulped and double-checked his seat belt. “My offer to teach him how to _drive_.”

* * * * *

“One kilometer,” Spike called, already reaching forward to snap on the lights and siren for his and Sam’s truck. In the trucks ahead of them, Lou and Jules did the same. Ed slammed down on his accelerator, a snarl curling his lip. On his heels, Wordy and Sam sped up, matching their livid Sergeant’s pace with ease. It was time for the locals to find out why you _didn’t_ kidnap people off the street and throw them in prison, _just_ because they were _inconvenient_.

* * * * *

Sheriff Ted Wallace didn’t bother holding back his ire as he slammed through his office door, yelling for Saunders. He should’ve known. _Cops_ , the _both_ of them. Big city cops, sniffing around _right_ after that idiot Reston had finally outlived his usefulness. And, if his informant was to be believed, big _brother_ was one of the _elite_ cops. SRU, Toronto’s much touted _cavalry_.

“Sheriff? Somethin’ wrong?” Saunders questioned, hustling to keep up with his boss.

“Those two _drunks_ , you idiot. They’re _cops_. How in tarnation did you miss _that_ , numbskull?”

Saunders gawped. “Cops? They ain’t said nothing ‘bout being no cops, Sheriff.”

Wallace thrust the printout in his hand into his deputy’s chest. “I _wonder_ why that was,” he snarled. “Get going, numbskull. We got a riot at the prison.”

“Riot?”

The sheriff whacked his subordinate. “Prison, _now_. I’m calling in reinforcements from Sinclair.”

“Yessir.”

As soon as the lout was gone, Wallace was on the phone. Prison riot, less than a _day_ after stashing those two _cops_ there. Coincidence? Not a _chance_. He had no idea how those two had pulled it off and he didn’t _care_. When he got his hands on them…

“Ted?” the man on the other end asked, breathless.

“What?”

“Those guys you just sent us yesterday? They broke out, took Pink and Shep with ‘em.”

Wallace swore. Those two cops were gonna _pay_ for _this_. “I’m on my way,” he barked.

* * * * *

Having finished the first song, the prison PA cheerfully launched into the _Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol_ theme song, drawing raucous cheers from inmates and groans of dread from guards familiar with the movie. A hissing noise accompanied the song, though it was curiously louder in certain areas of the prison. As the song continued, the hissing crisscrossed the prison complex, always just out of view as it traveled.

Inside the main guard room, the educated guards forced their less pop-culture astute colleagues under tables and chairs, desperate for whatever cover they could get. One guard even seized the phone and dragged it with him into cover, insisting that the prison was about to blow up to the bewildered Sinclair cop on the other end.

The song drew to an end with its customary flare, the hiss growing louder as well. Two beats before the end, the hiss went out. Right as the last triumphant chord echoed through the prison, the floor shook, trembling in the force of an explosion from below. Though a number of items, including coffee cups and a coffee pot that had been left just a _little_ too close to the edge of a counter, fell to the ground with a thunderous crash, the prison itself was untouched. Indeed, quite curiously, though the guards still on their feet rocked, every single inmate not in their cell was thrown to the ground. In the time it took them to recover, the prison gates somehow reset on their own and clicked shut, as securely locked as they had been before either song played. The lone exceptions were those gates right near battered, trapped prison guards. They remained open until the guards managed to stumble through them – then they clicked shut, just as secure as the rest of the prison.

* * * * *

Sirens wailed from behind the dilapidated old truck they’d stolen. Why, Roy wondered, had Shep _ever_ thought this piece of _junk_ was worth _stealing_ , much less worthy of an escape attempt? It had to be at least _thirty_ years old! The detective checked the side mirror and shook his head in amazement; the cars _chasing_ them were just as _old_! Some of them didn’t even have light bars, just a simple rotating light that plugged into a cigarette lighter. A gleam caught his eye and he ducked down, hauling Pink with him; Pink, no fool, grabbed Shep and dragged him down as well. “Giles! Rifles!”

A ricochet off the truck’s tailgate reinforced the assertion.

“What do I do?” the Auror demanded; Roy stared at him. He didn’t even know how to _drive_ , much less how to tactically evade gunfire.

“Get us out of here!” Shep yelled.

The truck’s ancient engine let out a throaty roar as the wizard slammed the accelerator to the floor. A sharp turn to the right took them out of the line of fire – for a few seconds – but Giles nearly lost control as he jerked the wheel back the other way.

“Oy! Slow is smooth…”

“Smooth is fast,” Giles replied, even as he struggled to keep the out-of-control vehicle upright.

“Fast is lethal,” Roy finished. “See if you can lose them in a field or something.”

“Copy.”

* * * * *

“Whoa…” Lou muttered. “Guys, I think I found one of their radio channels.”

“Lou, what do we got?” Ed barked.

“Prison riot.”

For a second, Team One gawped at each other, dumbfounded. “A prison riot?” Jules asked.

“Listen to this,” Lou replied, playing a snippet from what he’d been able to pick up.

Spike sniggered. “ _Mission Impossible_ …”

“… _Ghost Protocol_ ,” Lou finished. “We got four escapees, too.”

“Four?” Sam echoed. “Who’re the other two?”

“No idea,” the less-lethal specialist admitted. “They’re calling in all the cops from Sinclair and Lyndhurst Flats, though. Sounds like our sheriff is _really_ mad about something.”

In the lead truck, Ed’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, team, new deal. Spike, Sam, keep heading for the Flats. Search that station, find their phones. Anyone tries to stop you, arrest ‘em; we’ll sort it all out afterwards.”

“Copy,” Sam acknowledged.

“Lou, you got us a direction for this chase?”

“Northwest, Ed. Sounds like they’re off the main road, though.”

“Where’d they end up?” Jules questioned.

“Not sure. Vineyard, maybe. Whatever it is, the rows are big enough for a truck.”

“Okay, okay,” Ed interjected. “Lou? Can you get us two angles?”

For a minute, the tech worked at his equipment, tension humming. Then, “Sorry, Ed, best I can tell, one way in, one way out. We can pin ‘em down though.”

“Ed,” Wordy broke in. “You and Jules go in; Lou and I will block the field and keep anyone from escaping.”

The Sergeant considered, then nodded once. “Copy that, Wordy. Sam, Spike, keep in touch.”

“Copy,” Spike replied.

For an instant, the words wouldn’t come. They were _his_ words. But…but he couldn’t spend the rest of his life grieving; _he_ wouldn’t want that. “Let’s keep the peace.”

With that, the caravan split, the sirens seeming to wail even louder as that reminder of their fallen boss and friend echoed.

* * * * *

“Giles. I think you’d better stop.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it over that.”

“We’ll make it.”

“Giles! This is not a _broom!_ ”

“Trust me.”

“Giles… Giles! _Giles Carth Onasi, I am going to kill you!!!!_ ”

* * * * *

The prison guards gawped as the battered old truck roared up a makeshift wooden ramp, taking flight over the fence separating one field from another. Screams echoed from the truck as it flew, landing with a heavy _crunch_ before soldiering on, seemingly unconcerned with its blatant violations of the law of physics and common sense. The closest pursuing sedan skidded as its driver slammed on the brakes. The second car rammed into the first one, sending them both sliding into the ramp where they came to a rest, smoke rising from crumpled hoods and one tire spinning as it dangled over the drop between the broken fence and the ditch below.

* * * * *

Deputy Rex Saunders gazed down at the phones in his hands, a trifle unhappy that he couldn’t keep one of them. They were _really_ nice phones, but the sheriff was too angry at him to risk bucking his orders. Well, soon enough, they’d be broken bits of electronic plastic and he could pretend they hadn’t been worth keeping anyway.

As he headed towards the front door of the station, fully planning on dumping the phones in some random farmer’s field, the door was thrust open, two uniformed cops entering. The lead cop, a blond, spotted him _and_ the phones. In the blink of an eye, he pulled his sidearm. “Police Strategic Response Unit, stay where you are!”

One of Saunders’ fellow deputies went for his own gun, only to freeze as the second strange cop drew down on him. “We’re looking for Detectives Roy Lane and Giles Onasi,” the raven-haired officer announced.

Dagnabbit. Those two drunks really _were_ cops.

* * * * *

Once the two Team One trucks reached their destination – which proved to be an orchard – the Toronto cops swung into action. Wordy and Lou blocked the orchard’s exit and started arresting the prison guards and local cops on foot while Ed and Jules made their way through the orchard, following a trail of upturned dirt and damaged trees. The brunette eyed the damage, wondering what in the _world_ Roy was doing – surely he knew how to drive better than _this_. Along the way, the pair found a dirt road between the orchard they were in and another one. Fresh tire tracks told the officers that the escaping inmates and their pursuers had gotten away.

“We got a hole,” Ed reported. “Get in here, guys.”

“Copy,” Lou acknowledged. “New transmission, Boss. They caught those other two inmates.”

“Roy and Giles are still loose?” Wordy asked.

“Yeah,” the constable confirmed. “They’re callin’ the two they got Pink and Shep. But there’s something else, Ed.”

“What?”

“They found the truck, too. Roy ‘n’ Giles are on foot.”


	6. The 1980s Just Called; They Want Their Car Back

Sneakers. As _soon_ as they got back to Toronto, he was dragging Giles to that shoe store and he was gonna _sit_ on the idiot until they got him a pair of sneakers. Boots were wonderful things…right up until you had to _run_ in them. “Remind me again,” Roy spat, panting in between phrases. “Why you thought it would be a _brilliant_ idea to treat a thirty-year-old piece of _junk_ like a _stunt car_?”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

“Newsflash, _genius_ ,” the detective hissed. “We _trashed_ our _only_ set of wheels! And you _broke_ your _wand_!” Which meant no Apparition or Portkeys, because, sadly, they’d had to leave their badges behind and their phones were still in the custody of the Lyndhurst Flats Sheriff’s Department. They were lucky Giles had been able to use the larger piece of his broken wand to enlarge his little black beaded bag; otherwise, they would’ve still been in prison shoes and jumpsuits.

Ahead of Roy, his partner slid to a halt, then darted left, avoiding the open field beyond the trees. The brunet kept pace, mentally cringing at the thought of leaving the scant cover of the orchard around them. Especially with the crooked cops and prison guards searching every nook and cranny for the escapees. Even with the lousy prison shoes slowing them down, they’d outrun Pink and Shep in minutes. Once they’d gotten out of sight, the pair had swapped the prison clothes for their own clothes, including two sturdy pairs of boots. While the boots weren’t the best for running, they were at least halfway decent, unlike the prison shoes.

Giles slid to a halt again, throwing out an arm to keep Roy from running past him. The panting detective caught up and peered over the shorter man’s shoulder. Blast. There was an exit alright, but four men with shotguns guarded it. They were scanning the trees, but looking for that gaudy neon orange, not two men in street clothes. Even so, attempting to escape past four gunmen was almost literal suicide. Roy muttered a curse under his breath, earning a glum nod. By mutual unspoken agreement, the pair ducked back into the orchard’s trees and headed back the way they’d come, searching for another way out.

* * * * *

Sheriff Wallace growled to himself. _City_ cops. All high and mighty, what did _they_ know of life in the country? All smug and arrogant on their high horses. They had no _idea_ of what it took to get things done. So a few palms got greased here and there, so what? So they did a few…favors for some out-of-towners. It never stayed in county, never troubled the good people of Sinclair. There were always extra funds for the politicians’ pet projects, always another way to spruce up the aging roads and keep the towns nice and neat. It had been _perfect_ until those stupid city cops turned up.

Fury pulsed. There was only _one_ man in Lyndhurst Flats who’d be _stupid_ enough to call in big city cops. Heck, rumor ‘round town was his daughter _was_ one of those big city cops. He’d seen the man’s record himself, the _idiot_ had been a cop himself once upon a time. Once a big city cop, _always_ a big city cop. Well, if he wasn’t going to play by the rules, then it was time and past to _deal_ with the problem. Time and past to pay the fool a little _visit_.

* * * * *

The dilapidated old barn stuck out like a sore thumb in the neat, orderly rows of carefully kept orchard trees, already heavy with blossoms that hinted at the fruit to come. The roof looked as though it was but a breath from collapse, the wood so weathered that Roy had to wonder if the entire structure would rot away right in front of him. A length of chain and a padlock bound the doors, brand-new, gleaming, and plainly out of place.

Curiosity stirred; what was worth hiding in an old barn? Roy glanced at his partner, earning a quick nod. The two men crept to the door, holding their breath as Giles tapped the lock with the larger piece of his broken wand. Fortunately, it didn’t backfire; the padlock hesitated, then clicked open. The wizard stripped the chain off the handles, tossing it aside and out of the way. He tried to shift the door; it rocked and let out a low creaking moan, but didn’t move.

“Giles,” Roy murmured, getting in beside his friend. Grim, the Auror nodded and the men leaned into the door, grunting as they strained. It took a minute, then the wood creaked in renewed protest and shifted, slowly moving outward. Roy adjusted his position, wedging himself into the slowly widening gap. With more leverage, the door picked up speed, squealing and wailing until it slammed into a stop neither man could overcome. Despite struggling for another minute, the door refused to budge, finally forcing the detectives to draw back in defeat.

As soon as they stopped, the smell from the barn hit them; both officers recoiled at the unmistakable stench of decomp. Roy edged away from the door, coughing at the stale, sour blast of air from the interior. Though he wasn’t any happier, Giles advanced, lifting his right hand. “ _Lumos_ ,” he incanted; to his partner’s surprise, a small white globe appeared above the wizard’s head, hovering on his wand side. The tiny bubble of light revealed a dusty black car hood. The Auror frowned, gesturing with his hand. Slowly, the bubble expanded, brightening as it did so until the rest of the car appeared out of the darkness. Roy whistled under his breath. An old black Trans Am, with a scoop in its hood and the headlights tucked away. Curiously, it sported a dark bar right under the hood instead of a typical Pontiac emblem. The detective reached out and brushed the dust off, but no emblem emerged.

“Roy.”

The brunet moved right, following Giles’ gaze to the two bodies lying behind the car. Roy swallowed hard, gorge rising at the maggots crawling on the dead men. The darkness hid the rot but not the eyes; glazed and cloudy, they seemed to be staring right at him, almost accusing. So close, he’d been so close to joining them. One of the bodies clutched a set of keys, almost certainly for the Trans Am. The vast pool of dried blood made it clear that both men had been murdered inside the old barn rather than simply dumped. Despite the decomp, the bodies were easy to identify as the missing journalists.

“I guess we found ‘em after all.”

“Yeah,” Giles conceded softly. Then he glanced at the car. “We’ve got wheels.”

Part of Roy objected: they’d disturb a _crime scene_ , this was a _dead man’s_ car, but he clamped down and forced himself to think logically. Escaping with their lives had just become even more imperative, especially with the gruesome murder scene before them. Now that they _knew_ , now that they had _proof_ , they’d become that much more of a threat to the crooked cops of Sinclair county.

Despite its age, the Trans Am looked light, speedy, and agile. Roy was confident he could drive it well enough to escape any and all pursuit. Between his years of experience as a cop and that tactical driving course his brother had muscled him into a few months earlier, those crooked cops didn’t have a _prayer_ of catching them. It was their best chance.

“Can you…” Roy gulped as Giles turned, one brow arching. “Can you summon the keys?” He could see them, but he really, _really_ didn’t want to get that close. Not if he didn’t have to.

The Auror shifted back, making a face of his own when he spotted the keys’ location. “I can try, but we’ll lose the light.”

“Open the car door,” Roy suggested.

Onasi reared back, caught off guard, then shrugged and obeyed. As Roy had hoped, the vehicle’s interior lights came on. Not much, but something. To his surprise, a glow also appeared just under the hood, the dark bar coming to life with a red light that trundled back and forth. Next to the open car door, Giles lifted his hand, shoulders tensed in either fear or intense concentration. The _Lumos_ bubble winked out. “ _Accio_ car keys.”

Roy held his breath – and not just because of the stench. He heard a rattling sound and cringed as his fertile imagination went to work. There was a soft whistle of air, then metal smacked flesh.

“Yes!” Giles half-cheered. “ _Lumos_!” The bubble of light reappeared, in the exact spot where it had been before. Roy’s jaw quirked, then he grinned when his partner held up the keys. The wizard grinned back, then tossed them to Roy. “You drive.” _This time._

“Copy,” the detective replied. He turned his head, scowling. “We’ll need to get the other door open.”

The Auror huffed a sigh, but came back to the front of the barn. Together, the two men put their shoulders into the second door, weight and muscle combining to force it outwards. It creaked and wailed as metal objected to being moved. The wood fought, resisting their efforts, but even the most stubborn of materials was no match for Lane tenacity and Onasi stubbornness. Not with their lives on the line. When the door struck the stop, the partners strained a minute longer, then accepted defeat. Roy eyed the yawning space between the weather-beaten doors and resisted the urge to cringe. Not as much room as he wanted, but he’d have to make it work.

“Okay, let’s get out of here, partner.”

Roy darted for the driver’s seat while Giles planted himself in the Trans Am’s passenger side. The detective blinked in surprise; the Trans Am’s interior was tricked out with lights, panels, and buttons. It was like looking at the 80s version of a space ship, only in a car instead. Even the steering wheel…it was more like a race car yoke than a steering wheel. Shoving aside the speculation and even the touch of awe, he jammed the key in, turning it; the engine came to life with a throaty roar. Roy turned the wheel just a touch, eyeing the door, then stepped down on the accelerator. The car launched forward, peeling out with the speed of a vehicle half its age; Roy was forced to yank the wheel sideways to keep from ramming right into the orchard trees outside the barn.

“Whoa,” Roy muttered, gripping the wheel with both hands to keep the vehicle steady. “This thing’s got a _kick_.”

“Why thank you.” Smooth, genteel, with the _distinct_ edge of a Boston accent.

Roy jumped a foot, only just keeping the car from crashing. “Who said that?”

“I did.” A yellow light blinked on in the corner of Roy’s vision, illuminating something labeled ‘Auto-Cruise’. Beneath his hands, the wheel moved itself, aligning with the orchard’s dirt road while the car slowed to a sedate 20 MPH. In the center of what should’ve been the car’s radio, a panel with three audio bars lit up, the bars extending out from the center as the mystery voice spoke. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am the voice of the Knight Industries Two Thousand, K, I, T, T; KITT if you prefer.”

“Cool.”

“Cool?” Roy half-shrieked. “The car _talks_ and you think it’s _cool_?”

Giles ignored him. “Do you transform?” he asked the car hopefully.

“No, I do not, Detective Onasi. Not unless you consider my Super Pursuit mode to be ‘transforming’.”

The wizard’s brows arched. “You know my name?” Beside him, Roy shuddered.

“I did not prior to you and Detective Lane forcing open the door to that atrocious barn,” the car replied. “Once you gained entry, it was a simple thing to scan your facial features and match you to the Toronto Police Department’s database. Incidentally – and merely to satisfy my own curiosity, do your colleagues know you can use pyro and telekinesis?”

“Tele-what-si?”

Roy groaned. Great, this was just _great_. The dead guy’s car could _talk_ and access the Internet and hack government databases and it _knew_ Giles had _magic_. “Don’t answer that, partner.”

“I was merely curious,” the car objected, defensiveness audible. And _seriously_ , the _car_ could sound _defensive_? “A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.”

“You _hacked_ a government database while Giles and I were getting the other door open and you want us to _trust_ you?”

There was a pause as the car absorbed the argument. “I see. I apologize for alarming you, Detective Lane. However, I did not, as you put it, _hack_ a government database. The Foundation for Law and Government has a long standing relationship with both the American and Canadian governments. As part of that relationship, the Foundation has access to the majority of existing law enforcement databases.” Beneath them, the Trans Am came to a halt. “I would be happy to explain further, but it appears we are about to be interrupted. Two cars are currently blocking the only nearby access road out. They have not spotted us as of yet, but they will soon. I’m afraid the lack of adequate lubricant on the barn doors caused rather more noise than any of us might have preferred.”

“Dang,” Roy hissed, setting aside the whole _talking car_ issue for a more convenient time. “Giles? Any way out on your side?”

The car made a huffing noise. “Detective, when I said that was the only access road, I meant it. There is no other access road within ten miles.” It paused, then said, “I recommend using my Turbo Boost to jump over the vehicles blocking our path.”

“There goes our stealth,” Giles grumbled.

“Very true,” the car agreed. “However, I fear there is no other option if we wish to depart this orchard. Shall I arm the Turbo Boost?”

The detectives traded grim looks, neither one liking the situation. To _trust_ an unknown, even if it _seemed_ reliable, wasn’t something either man relished. Sadly, they were out of time and options. No backup, no weapons, and no more magic; Roy wasn’t an idiot. If Giles wasn’t tapped out, he was right on the edge; wandless took more raw power and his friend was _used_ to using his now broken wand.

“Can you get us to the main road?” Roy asked.

“Certainly,” the car replied. A map appeared on a computer screen mounted on Giles’ side of the dash board, crude and outdated, but the route was clear enough. “Once we reach the main road, escape should be much easier.”

“More room to maneuver,” Roy muttered.

“Precisely.”

For a moment, Roy clenched his jaw. He _didn’t_ like this, but what option did they have?

“Roy.” Giles’ voice was soft, unhappy, but resigned.

“I know, I know.” The detective straightened in his seat, glaring at the dashboard. “Okay, listen, car; we don’t trust you, but you’re our only way out. You backstab us and I will find a way to pop every last _one_ of your tires, understand?”

“My name is KITT,” the car objected in a prim and offended tone. “In the interests of full disclosure, my tires are impossible to ‘pop’; however, should I betray you, there is a computer override switch under the dash that can be used to deactivate me.”

Roy grimaced; if the car turned on them, they probably wouldn’t be _alive_ to flick that override switch. Still, the car had no more reason to trust _them_ than they had to trust _it_ ; assuming it wasn’t lying, it had just exposed itself to deactivation by revealing the switch. “All right, where’s this Turbo thingamajig?”

“If you look to the right of my steering wheel, there are several stacks of buttons. Turbo Boost is at the top of the stack closest to the steering wheel, but do take care. My eject buttons are right below it. Ejecting either one of you would be inadvisable at the moment.”

“Great, that’s just great,” Roy snarked, scanning the panel. “A car with an attitude problem.” He paused, spying the button between two red Turbo Boost indicators. “Do I press it now?”

“If you wish, I can activate the Turbo Boost at the most opportune time. That way, you can focus on driving.”

The detective swallowed and nodded. He’d been banking on a regular Trans Am, not this suped-up talking car. Frankly, he had a nasty feeling it would take a _racecar_ driver to handle this car without crashing, but what choice did they have? Lifting his head, he focused on the two patrol cars ahead of them, the four armed men inside them ready and waiting. “Giles. Don’t say anything unless it’s life or death.”

“Copy.”

“Car, KITT, whatever, same to you.”

“As you wish, Detective.”

On the dashboard, Auto-Cruise winked out, changing back to the green Normal just above it. The car started inching forward and Roy let it, breathing out as he rested his foot on the accelerator. Now or never. He slammed the accelerator down, focus narrowing to the obstacle ahead of them. The engine roared, speed slamming them backwards into the seats as the Trans Am shot forward. Shouts came from ahead; they’d been spotted. Roy held steady, forcing himself to ignore every _ounce_ of training and instincts. They were going over; they had to. But even as the car flew, they stayed earthbound. Closer. Closer. _Any time now, car._

A soft beep sounded, followed by a _whoosh_ as something fired beneath the Trans Am. The car’s nose rose, thrusting them skyward; g-forces ramming them even harder than the speed had. KITT flew, arcing over the patrol cars before landing heavily on the dirt road beyond.

The engine took over once more, powering them through the soft turf towards freedom. Roy stole a glance at the mapped course, then hauled the steering wheel left; the Trans Am skidded beneath him, but slid obediently onto the new course, darting for the main road just visible at the far end of the orchard row. Shouts and sirens echoed behind them, all of them ignored by the detective in the driver’s seat. A few beats before the main road, Roy snapped the wheel right, slipping the car onto the main road with inches to spare between the highway’s dividing lines.

“Very well done, Detective,” KITT praised. Auto-Cruise winked on again. “If I may?”

“They’re still after us,” Roy protested.

“True,” KITT granted. “However, it will take them some time to get those two patrol cars out of the way. By the time they do, we will be long gone. Perhaps I can finish my explanation from earlier?”

“Roy, let him,” Giles put in. “They locked him in with those two bodies; I don’t think he’s on their side after that.”

“Very true,” KITT agreed, his voice turning sour. “Especially since one of them was my new driver.”

Roy released the steering wheel, expression skeptical. “A journalist has a suped-up car like this?”

“No.” KITT paused, as if considering. “One of the two men murdered was, as I said, my new driver; the other was a local journalist named Frank Reston.”

Giles nodded. “Yeah, that’s who me ‘n’ Roy were lookin’ for. Who was the other guy?” He halted, then stuttered, “I-I mean, other than your new driver.”

“I’m afraid his real name is classified and I was never given it; the name he went by was Michael Knight. All of my drivers have used that name; it’s become a bit of an in-joke for my handlers at the Foundation.”

Though KITT’s voice was matter-of-fact, Roy picked up an undertone of distaste. “You don’t like that, do you?”

For several seconds, KITT did not reply. Then he said, “No, I do not. My first driver took up the name Michael Knight after his previous identity was presumed murdered. He was shot in the face, requiring numerous surgeries, both medical and cosmetic. That others have used the name he was given by my primary creator and taken advantage of the reputation he established is intolerable to me, but I have little say in the matter.” A breath, then the car continued, “My latest driver viewed me as little more than an outdated piece of scrap metal and often vocalized his wish that I be junked and replaced with a vastly improved model.”

Roy winced; the hurt was impossible to miss. “And your first driver?”

“He was my best friend.” Simple, matter-of-fact, and pretty much guaranteed to get both detectives’ sympathy. They knew was it was to lose your best friend. Roy might’ve suspected KITT of manipulating them, but the sorrow and grief were too evident. Naked and unvarnished. Too much like him after Jerome, Giles after Revan, and his brother after Parker.

Giles cleared his throat, getting back to business. “So you and him…you came up here to help catch those dirty cops?”

The Trans Am bobbed beneath them. “Just so,” he concurred. “They arranged to be arrested on a simple drunk and disorderly charge, just to acquire the lay of the land before launching an in-depth investigation. However, something went wrong. I was expecting to be impounded, but shortly thereafter, I was removed from the impound to that structure you located me in. By the time I was pushed inside, my driver and Reston were dead. I believe my keys were left with my driver as a…deterrent…against anyone attempting to use me for escape.”

Roy shuddered at the memory. “Why not just bust outta there on your own?” he asked.

“My driver had activated my Manual Override, preventing me from accessing the vehicle controls. One of you managed to reset it,” KITT explained.

“And you have no idea why they were murdered?” Giles questioned.

“None.”

“Must’ve been something big, though,” Roy murmured. “I mean, you don’t just murder people outta the blue and Pink said Reston’s column had been going for years.”

The Auror nodded agreement. “He said Reston had been after that judge guy for years, too.”

“Perhaps it was the involvement of a man named Zachery Callaghan,” KITT suggested. “Mr. Callaghan is the one who contacted the Foundation and requested assistance.”

Both detectives froze. “Callaghan?” Roy asked, tone frigid.

“Yes, why, do you know him?”

Roy’s response painted the air blue.

“Roy, Roy, Roy! Cool it, partner!”

“He _knew_ ,” Roy snarled, slamming the door panel. “He _knew_ and he didn’t say a _word_. Not. One. Word. We spent _hours_ planning this thing and he _knew_ it would _backfire_.”

“Roy, stop,” Giles ordered, expression just as rigid, just as furious. Grim, he reached down, tugging his black beaded bag off his belt. “KITT, Roy and I found a broken recorder inside the Lyndhurst Flats cell. You’re a computer, right?”

“Yes, of course,” KITT confirmed, surprise lurking.

“Can you get the sound off or something?” the Auror asked, pulling the device out of his bag.

“I can try,” the Trans Am replied. Giles held the recorder close to the dashboard and an audible whirring filled the air for a minute or two. When it faded, KITT’s audio bars lit up, discouragement audible. “I’ve been able to pull some of the data from the recorder, but I’m afraid it’s too degraded for any sort of playback. The most I can discern is that Reston and my driver believed they’d observed the local officers with illegal firearms.”

“Step up from drug smuggling,” Roy muttered.

“But why?” Giles asked. “From what Pink and Shep said, they were making pretty good money with just drug smuggling. Why risk gun running?”

“Guys like that, Giles, they get a taste of it, they always want more,” Roy pointed out. “But you’re right; why go to gun running when they already _know_ drug smuggling. Sure, they sound like pretty much the same thing, but gun running takes different techniques, different precautions.”

“Perhaps one of their clients requested that they diversify,” KITT suggested. He paused, then remarked, “I have accessed the local radio channels. It appears that our former pursuers are rapidly being detained. I rather doubt they will bother us any further.”

“Team One.” Roy grinned and yet, something nagged at him. Something they were overlooking… Oh _crumb_. “KITT? Do you know if the locals know Callaghan called your driver in?”

Next to him, Giles froze, eyes going wide.

“Not for sure,” KITT admitted. “However, it may be possible.”

He didn’t want to do it. Callaghan had hung them out to _dry_ , sent them in without intel and without backup. If not for two inmates with a taste for prison escapes, Roy had little doubt that he and Giles would’ve joined Reston and the nameless driver in short order. But… That was Jules’ _father_. She – and Team One – had already lost Parker. He glanced at his partner, reading the same train of thought in the other man’s eyes.

“For Jules,” he whispered, earning a sharp nod. Then he gripped the steering wheel again and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. Auto-Cruise clicked off, the crude map by Giles lighting up with the route to Callaghan’s home in Lyndhurst Flats.

“May I suggest my Pursuit mode, Detectives?”

That sounded…really, really fast. Roy swallowed, praying he didn’t flip their suped-up, computerized getaway car. “Do it.”

There was a soft beep, the light on the center panel shifting from the green Normal to the blue Pursuit. Beneath them, the engine roared with renewed vigor and the car shot forward at a speed that would make most racecar drivers _green_ with envy.

* * * * *

KITT swooped around a turn, absently considering the two men in his cabin as he adjusted his balance and rate of speed. Detective Lane was doing quite well for a man with no prior experience driving such a high performance vehicle. Detective Onasi appeared to be intrigued by the idea of an intelligent computer, though KITT was confused as to why the man was unfamiliar with the common terms for the abilities he’d displayed in the barn. Lane was wary and suspicious, but no more so than Michael had been at first. Less, actually, given the man’s willingness to trust first the Turbo Boost and then the Pursuit mode.

They knew who Callaghan was, that much had been made obvious by Lane’s…colorful turns of phrase. And yet, unless KITT missed his guess – unlikely – they were sallying straight for the man on the off chance that he was in danger in spite of Callaghan dumping them into _precisely_ the same situation that Reston and his late driver had been in. It was something Michael would have done. The computer nudged the accelerator down; he could handle the speed and besides, Michael would have wanted him to help.

The thought of Michael brought a familiar ache to his circuits; he missed Devon and Bonnie fiercely, but Michael had been his first and best friend. Michael had taught him street smarts, taught him how instinct and intuition could often be just as good as facts and logic. Michael had been the one to accept him as an _equal_ , as a _partner_ , the two of them united against any that stood in their way. They’d been an unstoppable team – until time and all of his friend’s injuries had conspired against them. In the end, Tanya had won; Michael’s body had never truly recovered from the havoc she’d wrought, something none of them had realized until almost the end.

Heartbroken, he’d accepted a new driver within a week, determined to uphold Wilton Knight’s vision. Michael’s mission, to stop those criminals the law could not – or would not – touch. He hadn’t realized that most of FLAG’s operatives saw him as an outdated, outmoded relic of a foolish, idealistic time. Hadn’t realized that they would treat him like a _tool_ , not a friend. Not a partner and ally. By the time he’d been locked in that horrid barn, left with two rotting corpses, the KITT Michael had known had been gone. Dry sarcasm and wit got him nowhere; none of them were interested in his experience and input, only in what he could give them – _immediately_. They didn’t learn his systems the way Michael had, didn’t program him with football stats and argue with him about the results. Didn’t play chess against him and playfully moan about the inevitability of losing when you were competing with a computer.

KITT had no idea if the men who’d found him would be any different from the Foundation’s parade of uncaring, callous drivers, but surely it was worth a try. Something new, something that might just give him a glimpse of what he’d been missing since Michael’s death. Perhaps even a new lease on the life he’d promised Michael he would live for them both. His circuits throbbed again, but KITT set that pain aside in favor of focusing on his scanner.

They were within range of Callaghan’s house, if only just. Another vehicle was heading towards the house, a vehicle that matched the profile and configuration of the sheriff’s car; loathing shot through KITT’s circuitry. He had not _liked_ his newest driver, but still, his duty had been to preserve the man’s life. That night, when he’d been shoved in the barn, the sheriff had been there and a scan of his gun had confirmed KITT’s suspicions. The sheriff had executed both men himself. There had been no regret, no remorse. Just gloating.

“Detectives, I am detecting a vehicle heading towards Mr. Callaghan’s location.”

“Lots of cars in town,” the telekinetic pointed out, but the tone wasn’t hostile. More as if the man was seeking clarification as to KITT’s conclusion.

In response, KITT brought the car’s profile up on one of his screens, though he was careful to leave the map alone.

The man paused, cocking his head to the side as he studied KITT’s computer screen. “Huh. Looks like a cop car, Roy.”

Detective Lane hissed. “Hang it all; we need backup.”

Backup? Hurt licked at the computer; they had _him_ , why did they need anything else? Besides, who would they even _call_? Unless…his systems hummed, replaying the audio from inside his cabin through his processor again. Team One and the name ‘Jules’; a cross-reference immediately provided the answer. Constable Julianna ‘Jules’ Callaghan, daughter to Zachery Callaghan and a member of Toronto’s SRU Team One. And…ahhhh… Sergeant Edward ‘Ed’ Lane, newly promoted and brother to one Detective Royden ‘Roy’ Lane. Very interesting…

With a computer’s speed, KITT flicked through the radio channels he could detect, pausing on each to listen. It did not take long to discover a heavily encrypted radio channel, one which was nearly impossible to crack; only a decryption program Wilton Knight himself had created managed to do the trick and even _it_ struggled for ten whole milliseconds. An eternity in computer time.

“Detectives? I’ve located a radio channel for Team One. Shall I put you in touch with them?”

“Freaky,” Detective Lane muttered, only to get whacked by his telekinetic partner. “Hey, I’m driving here!”

“Stop insulting the car,” Detective Onasi hissed. “He _did_ get us out of that orchard.”

“Yeah, well, you ever get a look at the encryption on Team One’s channel?”

KITT squirmed, though his electronic voice remained cool and even. “Yes, most impressive,” he remarked. “I confess I’m somewhat surprised that they would send the two of you in without sufficient backup.”

Both men bristled. “Not their fault Callaghan lied to us,” Lane flared.

“It was supposed to be one night of recon, _just_ like your guys,” Onasi tacked on.

The computer wisely remained silent, particularly since the intuition Michael had struggled to teach him was pinging at him. Right along with a flag on Team One’s file – the probable death of their former Sergeant in an undercover operation. Given _that_ , the odds of the SRU officers _knowingly_ sending their colleagues in _alone_ on anything other than reconnaissance were so low as to be nonexistent. “My apologies,” KITT said. “I estimate five minutes between our current location and Lyndhurst Flats.”

“Roy.”

Lane’s lip curled, then he jerked a nod.

Onasi’s attention returned to KITT. “Raise them.”

“Certainly.” The computer adjusted his own frequencies for 2.431 milliseconds. “Done.”

The detective leaned forward. “Team One?”

“Giles?” KITT analyzed the voice coming through, wishing the SRU files came with voiceprints so he could get an idea of the _face_ behind that hopeful word.

Another voice cut in, stern and rigid. “Onasi, OMAC code.”

The telekinetic grinned, years dropping off him with the boyish expression. Dropping to a bass growl, he replied, “It’s not who I am underneath, but what I _do_ that defines me.”

“Copy that,” the second voice acknowledged, a wealth of relief flowing. “Roy with you?”

“Yeah, we’re together,” Onasi confirmed. “He’s driving though and, ah, it’s a _really_ fast car.” A pause. “Like, we’re gonna be back in Lyndhurst Flats in four minutes.”

“Spike and Sam are there,” a third voice piped up. “Should be at the sheriff’s office, getting your phones back.”

“We’re here,” yet another voice cut in. “We’ve got your phones and we’ve arrested the deputy who was gonna dump ‘em.”

“He’s already singing,” came a fifth voice. “Practically before we slapped the cuffs on.”

“Spike, Sam, you guys get the sheriff?” Lane asked.

“Negative.”

Onasi thumped the dash – but gently, just enough for the sound to carry. “We think he knows Jules’ father is involved.”

“My Dad?” Fear rang in the female’s question. “He’s going after my Dad?”

KITT weighed his options a millisecond, then slid aside the panel hiding his two most advanced speed functions. “Detective, Super Pursuit Mode will allow us to arrive within two minutes.”

“What was that?” one of the officers demanded.

“Um, yeah…the car we’re driving?” Onasi offered weakly. “It talks. Roy, you’re not gonna…?”

Over the radio, the officers sputtered even as Lane jammed down the Super Pursuit button. KITT’s speed panels deployed, the additional velocity sending his frame hurtling forward. The speedometer’s readout blurred, racing past KITT’s normal cruising speed of 150 MPH in seconds. His engine roared, the Passive Laser Restraint System activating automatically. Anxiety stirred; Michael was the only one of his drivers who’d ever used Super Pursuit Mode and that had been after they’d been partnered up for almost four years. Could the detective even _handle_ the speed?

“Guys, meet us there,” Onasi ordered.

“Assuming you two don’t crash?” Sarcasm and fear rang in equal measure.

Internally, the computer gulped. He was holding steady, but Lane was dangerously close to the edge of control; only KITT’s assistance was keeping them from a headlong collision. Every turn was marked with an overcorrection on his steering wheel; had Lane been on his own, they would’ve already crashed at least twenty times over. And yet, _he_ had been the one to point them to Pursuit mode _and_ the Super Pursuit Mode. Why?

But he knew why. They reminded him of Michael, both of them. The miles tore away under his wheels, his systems almost glorying in being _stretched_ , in being _used_ , not treated like last year’s model. Not just a useless, helpless piece of junk well past his prime. Michael would’ve liked these men, been _determined_ to save Constable Callaghan’s father – and not so incidentally impress the latest lady in his path. Calculations flew, a touch of brake keeping them upright as they hit the town’s outer limits. KITT’s scanner registered another armored vehicle closing in, large and carrying two occupants. It wouldn’t make it in time – the sheriff’s car was already at Callaghan’s location.

“Michael, deploy the EBS,” KITT barked. “Deploy it now!”

“Giles!”

The Emergency Braking System’s button was mashed, the panels deploying outwards even as the rockets under KITT’s hood fired. Michael stomped on the brakes; the Trans Am slid to a halt right between Callaghan and the crooked sheriff. Bullets pinged off KITT’s armored hide and the computer blanched. No, not Michael…Detectives Lane and Onasi. Why…why had he thought they were Michael? Slowly, KITT sank down on his tires, shame engulfing him. He’d…he’d wanted Michael back so _badly_ that he’d completely lost touch with reality. Inexcusable.

“SRU! Drop the weapon!”

“Hands in the air! Do it now!”

Backup. KITT watched, numb, as the two uniformed officers closed in on the sheriff who’d murdered his latest driver, slamming him against his car and cuffing him roughly. Unnoticed, the Knight Two Thousand trembled, caught in the horror of what he’d done.

_Michael…Michael…_

* * * * *

Figured. Suped-up car with speed like Sonic the Hedgehog and _bulletproof_ to boot. And yet, neither Roy nor Giles had missed it when KITT called Roy ‘Michael’. The partners traded grim looks, understanding burning. Beneath them, the car was physically trembling, though it had surely known, better than they, that bullets could not harm it.

“Hey.” Roy kept his voice low. “Hey, you okay, car?”

A noise that could’ve been a choked sob or maybe a name.

“Got a question for you,” Roy continued, ignoring everything else except the car’s audio bars. “Your first driver? When did you bury him?”

“Years,” KITT gasped out. “Years ago.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” the detective countered. “You’re still carrying him around, aren’t you? Letting his ghost hang out and haunt you all night long.” Roy stopped, closing his eyes as memories of Jerome slammed into him. “You, ah, you think he would’ve wanted that for you, KITT? Or would he want you to _live_ even if that meant letting him go?”

Beneath them, KITT’s frame shook with renewed grief. Gentle, Roy reached out and tapped the buttons to close the super speed mode and the braking thingamajig. Then he pressed the button next to the dim Auto-Cruise on the radio console. The partners traded glances, then they got out of the Trans Am, the keys left dangling in the ignition. If the car chose to stay, great, but the brunet had a feeling it had been a _very_ long time since KITT had been able to choose his own future. Maybe it was time that changed.

Roy closed the door, watching Giles do the same on his side, the weight of the day bearing down on his shoulders. Then he whirled to face Callaghan, lip curling. The former cop never saw it coming as the detective swung, punching him out.


	7. Epilogue

Commander Holleran read through the latest report, shock reverberating. He’d already read the report four times and yet…the words refused to sink in. The commander stopped, hands trembling as he found a notebook and pen. Flipping the notebook open to a fresh page, he checked the pen, then started reading from the top, forcing himself to stick to just the facts. Just the highlights.

Fact: the bodies recovered from the fire had died of gunshot wounds, a minor blessing. One body had some traces of soot in the lungs, while the other body had none. Moreover, the gunshots had been to core areas; death would’ve been quick, if not instantaneous. Far more merciful than dying to smoke or fire.

Fact: the bodies were, as yet, still unidentified. X-rays had been taken for dental comparisons, but even with an officer-involved crime, the backlog meant it would be another month before the comparisons would even be _looked_ at, much less matched to Parker’s already submitted records. DNA was no better, what with a six month backlog.

Fact: the body with no soot in its lungs had hips slightly wider than the shoulders and its spine was curved. Although the damage from the fire was severe, preliminary tests had confirmed the coroner’s suspicions. The body was _female_. The other body had been double-checked; it was male.

Hope begged to be let loose, but Holleran schooled himself. As much as he _wanted_ Greg to be _alive_ , there was no way his Sergeant would’ve left his coworkers and teammates in such agony. If Greg was _alive_ , he would’ve checked in within hours; at worst, perhaps a day or two. Parker was too good a friend, too good an _officer_ to simply abandon his people and his family. No, there was only one possible conclusion. Castor Troy was alive. Castor Troy had _killed_ one of the best men the commander had ever served with.

Rage. Hate. Holleran’s fists clenched, his soul screaming for justice and revenge in equal measure. And yet… Greg wouldn’t have wanted his team or his commander to throw away their morals for his murderer. No. They had to take Troy down the _right_ way. For Greg’s sake. For their own sake.

Castor Troy _would_ answer for every last murder, every last killing. His crimes would be exposed and those who’d helped him would reap the rewards they so _richly_ deserved. Nothing less would do for a _cop killer_.

_I’m sorry, Greg. I tried to pull you out, but_ she _stopped me._ Commander Holleran turned his head away, shame stirring. He should’ve realized, should’ve put the clues together faster. He should’ve told Team One the truth as soon as Greg told him Kastor was Troy’s sister. Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve. He hadn’t and Greg had paid the price. Made the ultimate sacrifice for his guys.

A knock sounded at his door.

For a long moment, Holleran slumped behind his desk, the weight of his – _their_ – loss too heavy to carry. Then he lifted his head and called, “Enter.”

The door creaked open and Winnie craned her head in. “Sir? Sergeant Lane just called. They solved the case and handed the suspects over to the Mounties. He said it might take two days to drive back…”

“That’s fine, Winnie,” the commander replied. “Thank you for informing me.”

Winnie nodded and pulled away, closing the door. Holleran listened as her footsteps trailed away. Two, three days, then he’d have to tell Lane that Troy was still alive. Still on the loose and with another cop on his body count. Raw grief rose, but he pushed it away. Parker had been one of _his_ officers and he’d let him down. Greg had been _trusting_ him to act calmly and rationally, no matter the provocation and what had he done? He’d gone and gotten himself _shot_.

Alone in a dark, empty office, Commander Norm Holleran clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and vowed he wouldn’t let his Sergeant die in vain. After a minute, he rose and retrieved Parker’s personnel file photo from his desk. Taking the photo over to the window, he set it down long enough to pour a small drink. Lifting the glass, he picked up the picture and toasted it sadly. “We’ll get him, Greg, I promise. He won’t get away with this.”

Turning, Holleran gazed out at the city, sipping his drink as he thought hard about their next steps. He wouldn’t quit, not until Castor Troy was stopped. Or dead.

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And fade to black... I hope everyone enjoyed this story (and KITT!) As your faithful author, I had such _fun_ with the _Mission Impossible_ jailbreak and our favorite detectives' wild ride from the 80s! As always, I adore comments and promise to cherish each and every one of them, so please spare a few minutes to tell me what you think.
> 
> In the meantime, we will move right into the next story. On Friday, December 4th 2020, we'll be starting "Homeward Bound".
> 
> See You on the Battlefield!


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